


The Ghost in the Trees

by tinydooms



Category: Tarzan - All Media Types, Tarzan - Edgar Rice Burroughs, The Legend of Tarzan (2016)
Genre: Adoption, Colonial-era Africa, Discovering humanity, F/M, Found Family, Friendship/Love, Grief, Ladies writing books, Loss, Minor Character Death, Parent-Child Relationship, Romance, Slow Burn, intercultural friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-07-06 05:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 75,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15879318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinydooms/pseuds/tinydooms
Summary: The Koba warned the Porters of the ghost in the trees the day they arrived in the village. Jane and her father had spent three long weeks at sea, sailing first to France, then on to Africa and the Port of Boma, then three long days on the river to the Koba territory bordering on the jungle, listening by day to the raucous chorus of jungle birds and by night to the screams of hidden predators. Jane was ten, and tired, and overwhelmed by the hugeness of her new country, and more than inclined to believe what the villagers had to say.





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 

The Koba warned the Porters of the ghost in the trees the day they arrived in the village. Jane and her father had spent three long weeks at sea, sailing first to France, then on to Africa and the Port of Boma, then three long days on the river to the Koba territory bordering on the jungle, listening by day to the raucous chorus of jungle birds and by night to the screams of hidden predators. Jane was ten, and tired, and overwhelmed by the hugeness of her new country, and more than inclined to believe what the villagers had to say.

What they had to say was considerable. The ghost in the trees, the evil spirit, a trickster who snatched knives, stole food, who ran with the wild Mangani and frightened hunters with his imitations of jungle creatures. He lured unsuspecting children away, the Koba said, and they were never seen again.

“He is an evil spirit,” they said. “If you see him, run.”

Jane looked at her father, to see how he would react to such tales. Professor Porter was a notorious skeptic, but he looked intrigued by the tales.

“And you've seen him?” he asked the Koba chief, Muviro.

“Only once,” the old man said. “He was a shadow in the dark, snaking out of the trees. But my sons have seen him since then, and they are brave men, and they were afraid.”

“What sort of animal is he?” Professor Porter asked, but Muviro shook his head.

“He is no animal. We call him _Tarzan_ , the ghost in the trees. Stay out of the jungle, little one.”

It was superstition, mostly, Professor Porter told her later, tucking her into bed in the small house built by missionaries who had come before them. Superstition and a very real wariness of the jungle animals. “There are no evil spirits out to get us, my Janey.”

“Truly, father?”

“Truly, pet. There are apes, and leopards, and a thousand other unknown creatures in that jungle, but spirits? I doubt it. Don't let stories frighten you.”

But even Professor Porter could not explain away that strange ululating roar that filled the air at random intervals throughout the year, echoing out of the depths of the jungle. He could not explain away the villagers' missing food and missing knives, and he could not rationalize away the sight, one cold morning, of a tall pale creature swinging silently through the trees near the river and vanishing out of sight into the mist.

And Jane? Jane grew up among the Koba. She learned their language, their music, their dances and traditions and food. She learned to weave, and sew, and to name the myriad birds and animals that surrounded their jungle home. And when she went away to the colonial girls' school in the Port of Boma, she dreamed of her village and longed to return.

And eight years passed.

 

 

Author's Note: Welcome to my first foray into Tarzan fanfic! (Shameful; I've been in this fandom for twenty years.) This story follows the backstory that the 2016 film "The Legend of Tarzan" created for Jane Porter, with expansions wherever I see fit. Also, I've decided to work with a fictional tribe, since my knowledge of the actual tribes of the Congo is shamefully limited. So I've called the tribe the Porters live among the Koba, and hope to treat them with as much fairness as possible. 

Please let me know what you think in the comments!


	2. The Spirit

**Chapter One:**

 

_June 1881_

 

“Did you hear it last night?”

“I did, yes. They're back.”

Jane didn't need to ask what Chief Muviro meant. Distant bellows had echoed from the jungle around the village; sounds of the Mangani fighting each other. They had returned to their summer roaming grounds, and from now until December, the deep jungle would be inaccessible to all but the bravest warriors. Jane, standing on the riverbank with her father, her friends, and her school trunk, felt a surge of contentment. The Mangani had returned for the summer, and she had returned home for good.

Wasimbu and Kwete hefted her trunk between them, and the three youths trailed after Muviro and Professor Porter back to the village.

“I'd like to see a Mangani ape,” Jane remarked. “For my book.”

Wasimbu snorted. “It would be the last thing you ever saw. They'd tear your head off, and then your book would never be published.”

“It could be published posthumously,” Jane replied lightly. “If it was good enough.”

“I don't think the English people would like that,” Kewte said. “'Animals of the Congo' by Janey Porter, who was eaten by the Mangani for her efforts.”

“It would offend English sensibilities,” Jane agreed. “But America would love it.”

“Love what?” called Professor Porter, glancing back at them.

“If Jane were to be eaten by a Mangani while drawing them,” Wasimbu said.

“Nonsense,” the Professor replied. “Mangani apes don't eat meat.”

The young people traded grins.

In the following days, Jane readjusted to life in the village. It was so good to be home, to see her friends and spend time with her father. The school in Boma had never really seemed like home to Jane; the other girls were mostly the daughters of rich European businessmen and looked down upon the African natives. They had scorned Jane for her love of Africa and talked longingly of their European homes. Jane hadn't begrudged them their homesickness, but their contempt for her own had irritated her. It was good to be back now in her own village, cooking with Mwana, who had practically raised Jane since her arrival in Africa, and her daughter Eshe, and playing with the children. Jane spent a part of every day working on her book, sketching flora and fauna around the village clear down to the river. Sometimes it irked Jane that she couldn't travel deeper into the jungle and so had to rely on books to tell her what she needed to know.

“Perhaps you ought not to be too concerned,” Mwana said, when Jane expressed this frustration to her. “Kimanga and Osy found a wild orchard not too deep into the trees last they went into the jungle. In large numbers, we will be safe harvesting the fruit. Bring your sketchbook with you.”

Jane grinned. It was good to be home.

*

He was in the highest treetops, dropping bananas down to Akut and the others, when they heard the noises. Human song, faint but growing louder, neared the orchard. He knew that the tumult was raised to frighten away the jungle creatures, and it worked. Akut and Terkla and Tubla and the others had already abandoned their food and headed back into the jungle. He dropped down to the jungle floor, snatched up the bunch of bananas, and followed them.

It was best to avoid humans; everybody knew that. Even if they were females. The young Mangani fled deeper into the jungle, and he followed. For a time. Curiosity began to get the better of him. Man frightened and intrigued him in equal measure, with their weapons and their calls and their strange, changeable fur. He had never really seen their females close up. The jungle orchard was big--they would never see him. And so he broke away from his brother and the rest of the Managani youths and turned back to the orchard, and changed his fate, although he did not know it then.

The females, when he got back to the edges of the orchard, had spread out. Some of them were in the trees, dropping fruit down to others, or else putting it in their woven baskets. He settled himself down on a branch high above the line of the fruit trees, where they would not see him watching.

There were quite a few of the females, at least three hands’ worth (his basis for counting being his fingers). They were noisy, very noisy, laughing and calling to each other, and making strange rhythmic ululations with their voices that he would later lean was singing. He rather liked it. They filled their baskets with mangoes and papayas and bananas, sometimes pausing in their calls to eat. No one noticed him, crouched high above them, and he began to relax.

He wondered, idly, if he were more related to the humans than to the Mangani. He did not know what he was; he looked like nothing else in the jungle that he had ever seen. He did not think that he was a human; they were a different color than he was, and they had that colorful, changeable fur, and they communicated in brisk sounds. And they did not fight like Mangani. He shivered, remembering his cousins who had fallen to thin sharp sticks. No. He did not think he was human.

One of the older females, clad in yellow, called up into the trees; there was an answering call. Presently there was a flash of orange-brown-blue and another female tumbled gracelessly out of the tree and landed with an awkward thump in the soft dirt. He sat bolt upright, almost forgetting his need to conceal himself from them. This female looked nothing like the others. She was paler than he was, and her hair was dark orange, and her clothes were different. She held a rectangular object in her hands and a funny broad thing on her head, and she was laughing at her own tumble. The other females laughed too, and the older one brushed her off, exclaiming. He leaned over the branch, trying to get a better look.

A human female, who looked different from the others. Extremely different. A broken human, the way he was a broken Mangani. There was no other way he could think of to describe himself, or her, but broken, unlike anyone else. His heart pounded as he watched her with the others. They treated her with kindness and affection, calling to and laughing with her, and she helped them fill their baskets, and occasionally sat to play with her square thing. He watched, fascinated, until at last the baskets were filled and the women began to walk back into the jungle, down towards their settlement in the river valley, a place assiduously avoided by the Mangani. On silent feet, high above their heads, he followed them.

On the outskirts of the jungle, he stopped. The females went on, carrying their baskets and singing, the broken girl among them. He stood in the trees and watched them go towards the village, each breaking off as she reached her own nest. The broken girl went to a square house not far from the tree line, waving to the others as she went. A man came out to greet her, and his heart stopped again--the man was broken, too. He was much older than the girl, probably her father, with greying hair. They went into their nest together, carrying their basket of fruit between them, and shut the door.

From that moment on he watched the village, captivated. At night he returned to his pack, deep in the jungle, but from dawn until dusk he waited in the trees, watching the people go about their lives, dreaming about the day that he would have the courage to go up to the broken girl and finally, finally, know what he was.

*

Summer reached its peak, and with it came a heatwave so intense that most of the village was rendered useless. Lessons were cancelled. Neither Jane nor Porter could think straight in the heat. The Koba children continued to come down to the Porters’ little house, though, and Jane took to taking them to play in the eaves of the jungle, where it was cooler. The shallow edges of the jungle were not considered to be more dangerous than anywhere else in the village, though everyone understood that going into the deep jungle alone was foolish to the point of insanity. Still, hide and seek made a good game for long summer days, and it was popular among the village children. They danced around Jane, pushing her towards the bole of a large tree.

“Come, come! Jane, you count!”

Jane laughed, and turned to face the tree. “From ten,then. Ten, nine, eight!”

The children scattered, running to hide under the flowering shrubs and brush. Jane marked their directions; none of them were foolish enough to go alone into the deep jungle, but they were still children, and it wouldn't do to lose track of them, even if that was the point of the game.

“Seven, six, five, four, three-”

A prickle ran down Jane's neck, as though someone was watching her. She paused in her count, raising her head, straining her ears. Nothing. Not a sound but the jungle birds in the trees. But the feeling didn't pass. Jane swallowed.

“Two-”

Something snatched the handkerchief from her sleeve. Something tall and silent. For a moment _something_ brushed against her skirts, and then was gone. She straightened, and turned.

There was no one there.

“Hello?”

Silence, but for the soft pat-pat-pat of feet moving away, deeper into the jungle, leaving a trail of gently trembling foliage in its wake.

“Hello? Who's there?” Jane called, moving forward. Under a bush nearby, one of the children stirred and looked out at her, curious. Jane held a finger to her lips and raised her voice to carry. “Children, go back to the village! Now.”

Startled, the Koba children slipped from their hiding places and hurried past Jane, running back towards the stockade. They knew not to disobey her when she used that voice. Jane watched them go, then stepped towards the jungle. She could still feel the eyes on her. Whose eyes? Not a leopard or a Mangani ape-she wouldn't be alive if one of them had come to her. And her handkerchief was gone. What was this?

 _The ghost in the trees_ , she thought, and shook her head in disgust at her own fancy.

“Where are you?” she snapped, peering around at the bushes. “Come on, you can't scare me! I'm from America; I wasn't raised to believe in spirits! I know you took my handkerchief!”

Jane rounded a tree, and something darted behind a bank of shrubs. Jane stopped, staring.

Behind the green leaves she could make out a shape crouching, and a pair of wide eyes looking out at her. Not an ape, she realized, but a man, mostly concealed by the leaves. He looked out at her with those huge wary eyes, and Jane realized with a shock that they were grey. A white man, here? The only other white men for a hundred miles were the missionaries in Bonne Terre Township, two day's walk in the opposite direction, and this man certainly wasn't one of them. What Jane could see of him was begrimed in jungle dirt, his hair a long and matted tangle. He held her handkerchief in curled fingers, just visible amongst the foliage. Every story that Jane had ever heard about forest gods and fairy knights flashed through her brain as they looked at each other, and at their heels came the Koba's ghost in the trees. But this was no spirit.

“Hello,” Jane said. The man's hand twitched, fingers tightening around the handkerchief. “You're welcome to have it,” she added, intrigue beginning to outweigh her surprise. “Will you speak to me?”

They stood still for a long moment, looking at each other, and then the ghost in the trees, the Koba's bogeyman, rose to his feet and stepped out of the bushes. Jane boggled; he was so tall, a head taller than her at least, and he was filthy, and staring at her in open fascination, and stark naked. She didn't know where to look.

“Hello,” Jane said again, her gaze settling on his face.

The man didn't respond, but stepped closer, and reached out an arm. He rubbed his knuckles across her cheek, firm but gentle. Jane leaned back, surprised, as he reached up to stroke her hair. A boy, she realized, closer in age to her than anything, not a man despite his great height. He smelled strange, like jungle dirt and green growing things and unwashed man. Strange, but not unpleasant. He took a lock of her hair in his fingers and sniffed it, his body almost touching hers. Jane leaned back, surprised; she had never been this close to a man before.

“Um, you must know that this is...very peculiar,” she said, as the wild man continued to sniff her hair, moving down her face towards her neck. Her skin prickled as he moved his face over it. “I'm not sure my father would find this very appropriate.”

The wild man ignored her chatter, continuing to smell his way down her body, and Jane tried to ignore the thrill that shot through her as he bent his long frame towards hers. It was the strangest and most bizarrely intimate thing she had ever experienced, his body almost flush to hers, his face pressed close to her skin as he inhaled her scent. There was nothing wrong or cruel about him; he studied her almost as an animal would, and while it was bizarre, unreal, Jane felt only his interest and curiosity, and decided that she was not unsafe. Then he put his face between her legs, and Jane leaped back and smacked him.

“No, stop that! I don't think so, wild man!”

He fell back onto all fours, and the look he gave her was so startled that Jane realized he had no idea what he had done wrong. And then he was up and gone, running away into the deeper jungle.

“No, wait!” Jane yelled, and took off after him. “Wait, please!”

He vanished ahead of her, but Jane did not stop running. It did not cross her mind to be afraid of the deep jungle, where wild and dangerous creatures stalked the trees. She pushed her way through ferns and bushes, calling for him, until finally she came out into a large open space. She stopped, looking around; where could he be? Sunlight filtered through the trees, stirring in the faint hot breeze. Above her in the canopy something moved, drawing Jane's attention upwards. Was it him?

A bull ape crashed through the branches, dropping towards her, roaring. Almost in the same moment, something long and pale careened into him, knocking him out of the air and into the shrubs. Jane turned to run, the bull's bellows echoing through the little clearing as he charged at her, and tripped. She fell hard into the loamy soil. Struggled to stand up. Fell again. And then he was there , the wild man, knocking her back into the dirt as he leaped across her, shielding her. For a moment they were pressed body to body, face to face, looking at each other, and then the bull ape was on them, roaring and pounding his fists into the wild man's back. Jane closed her eyes. She did not want to see him being killed. Terror so heavy she could taste it filled her. Above her, the wild man shifted his weight so as not to crush her, crying out as each blow fell. The bull tried to drag him off of Jane, scratching and scraping at him, but he made himself heavy and could not be budged. And somehow, the bull grew weary of the attack, and with one last bone-shaking bellow, stalked off into the jungle.

Silence fell.

Jane opened her eyes.

The wild man still crouched above her, but his arms were shaking. For a moment they looked at each other, the jungle silence deafening in their ears, and then he tilted sideways and collapsed, moaning softly. Jane dragged herself upright.

“Oh God, don't be dead,” she gasped, bending over him. “Please don't be dead.”

The wild man's eyes were closed; he lay still, crumpled on his side. His nakedness didn't matter to Jane anymore; she nudged him onto his back, wincing at the blood and scratches, and gingerly felt his ribs.

“Come on, come on, stay with me,” she muttered, feeling the bones moving beneath her fingers. He moaned, and Jane patted him. “Good, that's good, you stay with me.”

Somewhere behind her she could hear the sound of something coming nearer, and for a moment everything went white in her terror that the bull was returning. But no, those were human footsteps coming nearer, and she could hear Wasimbu and Kwete and Chief Muviro and her father calling for her.

“I'm here!” she shouted. “Please, help!”

The men loped into the clearing, armed with spears, her father with his rifle in his arms. They surrounded Jane and the wild man, exclaiming.

“Jane!” Professor Porter cried, dropping down beside her. “What happened? Are you hurt? Who is this?”

“I don't know,” Jane replied. “Oh God, there was a bull ape-”

“A Mangani?” Chief Muviro's hands tightened around his spear.

“-and it attacked me, but he-he shielded me-he saved me-” Jane scrubbed her hands over her face and realized that she was crying. “I don't know who he is.”

Muviro bent and touched the wild man's neck. “He is alive. We must get him back to the village. Wasimbu, go for help.”

Wasimbu nodded and vanished back the way they had come. Professor Porter swallowed his amazement and ran his hands over the wild man's torso, checking for damage as Jane had done. “What did the bull do, Janey?”

Jane recounted the attack, trying and failing to keep her voice from shaking, as her father and the chief laid the unconscious man out in the dirt. Kwete put his hand on her shoulder; she flashed him a grateful smile.

“He did right to shield you,” her friend said. “The ape would have killed you.”

“It's almost killed him,” Professor Porter said. “Broken ribs, broken collarbone, shoulder dislocated, and I wouldn’t be surprised if his spine was bruised. And look at those scratches! Did it hit his head at all?”

“I don't know,” Jane mumbled. “I closed my eyes.”

“And he said nothing?”

Jane shook her head. “Not a word. Not a single word. He barely even screamed.”

And suddenly it was all too much-the strange meeting with the wild man, the Mangani's attack, the way he lay half-dead in the dirt next to her. Jane leaped to her feet and ran to puke in the bushes. Kwete followed and put his arm around her as she knelt there, shuddering.

“Sorry,” Jane whispered, wiping her streaming eyes.

“There is nothing to be sorry about,” Kwete replied. “Any of us would do the same, had we survived such an attack.”

“He came out of nowhere,” Jane said. “He stole my handkerchief and I didn't even hear him come up behind me.”

“Why did you follow him?” Professor Porter asked, looking around. “Or did he bring you here?”

“No, I hit him.” The men looked around at her, surprised. Jane blushed. “Well, he was too close. He ran away and I followed because I was curious.”

“That was brave, and foolish.” Professor Porter shook his head. “Who on earth can he be?”

Chief Muviro raised his eyebrows. “He's our ghost, professor, can't you see? _Tarzan_. The ghost in the trees.”

“But he is not a ghost.”

“No.” The chief shook his head, marveling. “No, he is not.”

The wild man stirred, his eyelids fluttering. He moaned, a soft animal sound, and went still again. His hands twitched, and Jane realized that he was still clutching her handkerchief. Somehow it made her want to cry again.

Then Wasimbu was back, with more men bearing a stretcher. Jane watched as they loaded him onto the board, covering him from feet to shoulders with a cloth. Her father put his arm around her and Jane leaned on him, feeling strangely disassociated from the scene. She couldn't bear it if he were to die. His arm flopped off the edge of the bier, her handkerchief slipping from his hand. Jane bent to pick it up, and followed them back to the village.

“Bring him to our house,” Professor Porter said. “We'll put him in the guest room. Jane, Kwete, run ahead and heat some water, and fetch Mwana. And put out some bandages! We're going to need them.”

Jane nodded and followed Kwete through the jungle, back to the village, past the place where she had met the wild man. Had it only been half an hour ago? It seemed a lifetime. She looked at her handkerchief, dirty from being ground into the jungle floor. Maybe he would want it back, if he'd held onto it so long. Jane put it into her pocket and stepped out of the jungle.

Most of the village waited in the clearing between the houses and the jungle, alerted by the children and Wasimbu to the drama within. Eshe and Mwana hurried forward as Jane and Kwete came out of the jungle.

“Jane! What has happened?” Mwana cried, catching the younger woman in her arms. “Who is hurt?”

“The ghost in the trees,” Jane whispered. _What is wrong with me?_ She wondered _. He is just a man._

“There was a man in the jungle,” Kwete said, talking over their exclamations. “He saved Jane from a Mangani bull and is badly wounded. He will need you, Mwana.”

“In that case,” Mwana said, “I will fetch my bag. Eshe, help Jane home.”

Eshe took Jane’s arm, murmuring to her kindly, and Jane let herself be led home, dazed and scarcely able to comprehend the anxious questions around her. She felt as though she had been packed in cotton wool, and could only keep moving forward.  The house was silent compared to the uproar outside. At Eshe’s behest, Jane made her way to the stove and put on the kettle, her hands shaking. She followed her friend through to the little guest room and helped to throw back the sheets that she kept fresh, on the off chance that someone would visit and need a bed to sleep in. She wondered if the wild man had ever slept in a bed. Somehow she doubted it. Sunlight streamed into the room, bright and golden, unhindered by any blind. She would have to fix that. Mwana returned and began to set out her medicines and bandages; Jane stood and watched until she realized that the kettle was singing, and went back to the kitchen. She poured the hot water into a basin, adding enough cool to it to keep it from burning the skin. She carried it through to the guest room and set it on the little side table. She ran through to her father's study and fetched his own medicines bag, where they kept the really strong stuff, putting it down beside the steaming basin. There. Oh, where _were_ they? Anxious, Jane walked back out onto the veranda, shielding her eyes against the golden late-afternoon sunlight. Eshe and Kwete followed, looking out towards the jungle. There, coming through the trees, were the men carrying the stretcher.

“Is the bed turned down?” Professor Porter called.

“Yes,” Jane replied. “And the water is hot, and I've brought out the medicines. Mwana is here.”

“Good. Bring him through.”

Jane stood to one side as the stretcher bearers made their way inside. She stared at her wild man, her unlikely rescuer, spread out on the bier. His feet hung off the end, and someone had covered him from waist to ankles with a cloth. A little late for modesty, Jane thought, and felt the bizarre urge to laugh. _What is wrong with me?_ Chief Muviro, passing alongside her father, squeezed her arm.

“It is all right, Janey,” he said. “It will be alright. Come now and watch with me.”

Jane nodded and followed him into the house. The stretcher bearers carried the wild man into the guest room and laid him out on the bed, careful not to jostle him too much. Professor Porter and Mwana bent over him, their movements calm but swift. In concert they worked to make him comfortable, dunking cloths in the hot water to wash the blood and dirt away his injuries. As they worked, the wild man stirred and moaned, his eyelids fluttering. All at once they opened, and he shied away from Professor Porter's hands.

“Easy now,” Porter said, his voice low and soothing. “Easy. We are trying to help you.”

But the wild man did not understand. He knew only that he was in pain, and that there were too many people in the room, crowding the bed, staring at him, and he struggled, terrified.   He snarled and batted at Porter and Mwana with his good arm, trying to twist away from them. But pain crashed through him, hot and corrosive, and he fell back against the mattress, whimpering.

“It's all right, we are trying to help. No one here is going to hurt you,” Porter said again, but the look in the wild man's eyes was one of animal terror, and he did not stop trying to twist away from them.

“He cannot understand,” Mwana said. “He is _Tarzan_ , the ghost in the trees. He does not know humans, professor.”

“Is that a name? Come on, now, lad, knock it off!”

Mwana shrugged. “It's what he is.”

“She’s right,” Muviro said, marveling. “We always thought he was a spirit.”

“He’s no spirit,” Porter said, and cursed as the man’s hand smacked into his chest. “ _Stop_ it!”

Jane walked forward and caught the wild man’s good hand in hers. His grey eyes shifted to her, widening, and he made a small sound of distress. Mwana and Porter stepped back.

“Hey, it's alright,” Jane said, rubbing his dirty hand between hers. She settled next to him on the bed. “It's all right. We're helping. It's all right now. Lie still. It’s all right.”

The wild man’s eyes were wide and full of pain and fear, but he stopped struggling. Jane smiled at him and kept stroking his arm. Moving quickly, Professor Porter bent over his charge, taking the wild man’s broken arm in his hands.

“Keep talking,” he said. “Keep him calm. I'm going to have to set this arm.”

Jane tightened her grip on his hand.

“You saved me,” she said to him. “I didn't thank you before. I'm so sorry you're hurt. And I'm sorry I hit you.” He blinked at her, his eyes sliding to the Porter and back. “That's Father and Mwana and Chief Muviro. They won't hurt you. They're going to set your arm, make it better. It's going to hurt, but it'll be alright. You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you?”

The man made a low noise, half-growl, half-whimper. Jane nodded as though she understood, and continued to pet and stroke him, trying to convey safety as her father braced himself to set his broken arm. A wrench and a twist and a stomach-churning crunch, and the bone slid back into the shoulder socket. The wild man gave a strangled half-shout and fell back, panting. His eyelids fluttered. Mwana reached out and stroked his hair, crooning to him.

“Easy, now, Tarzan, you’re going to be fine,” she said. Tarzan moaned.

“Is there anything you can give him?” Muviro asked. “For the pain?”

“There's laudanum.” Professor Porter took a small brown bottle from the medicine bag and passed it to Jane. “Give it to him with water, Jane. He seems to trust you. Only a little now, and have some yourself, for the shock.”

Jane swallowed, surprised; her father had strict views on the use of laudanum, namely that it was only to be used in dire need. She squeezed Tarzan's rock hard hand, and stood, reaching for the pitcher on the bedside table. She poured a tall glass of water, and taking the wild man’s great size into account, tipped a sizeable amount of the medicine into it. Better to make sure that she gave him enough to help. Then she bent over him again.

“Here, look. This is water and medicine, see? Water.” Jane took a gulp of the concoction to show that it was harmless. It tasted bitter, metallic. She held it to Tarzan’s lips. He drank. “Good, that’s good.”

The medicine was strong; Jane had taken only a mouthful, but already she felt calmer, more detached from the cotton wool fog that had encircled her since the Mangani attack. Tarzan finished the water and coughed. His good hand came up and caught Jane’s; they gripped each other as Mwana folded the injured arm across his chest and wrapped it in a sling. Jane reached up and, without thinking, stroked his face. Everything in her bawled to cling onto him, to pull him into her arms and never let go. She fought the temptation, keenly aware of her father and all of the other people in the house. Instead, Jane rubbed his shaking arm and talked soothing nonsense to him as Porter and Mwana finished cleaning the scratches left by the bull and wound bandages around his broken ribs. She watched his eyes lose focus as the medicine took hold, and let herself fall silent.

“There,” her father said, tying off the last bandage. “Good work, Jane. You can let him go now.”

Jane ignored that, still gripping the injured man’s hand. “Now what?”

Porter glanced at Mwana and shrugged. “Now we wait. If he survives the night, it means there is no internal bleeding. If he doesn’t, well.”

“He is strong, this one,” Mwana said, folding her arms as she looked down at him. “Look at the scars on his body. He has survived fights before this. I do not think that we will lose him.”

“I hope not,” Jane whispered.

Chief Muviro cleared his throat. “I will leave you here with him, then. I must tell the people that Tarzan is among us.”

“Will they fear him?” Porter asked.

Muviro smiled. “They will follow their chief’s lead, and I am not afraid now that I have seen him. He saved Janey’s life, my friend. What is there to fear?”

He had saved her life. Tears blurred in Jane’s eyes, and she was suddenly crying as the fear and disbelief of the afternoon’s events came home to her. That the innocence of their meeting had devolved into such a brutal attack, that this strange and wonderful man was perhaps mortally injured because Jane had decided to pursue him into the deep jungle, the memory of the bull ape trying to beat them both to death-all at once it was too much, and Jane crumpled, sobbing.

Porter was at her side in an instant, taking her into his arms. “Hush, now, my love, I know it’s been a terrible shock. There’s a girl, you’re alright. Easy, now.”

“He just wanted my handkerchief!” Jane wailed. “He just wanted to meet me!”

“Yes,” Professor Porter said. “I wonder about that. Tell me what happened, sweetheart, from the beginning.”

Jane swallowed and recounted the tale for them, omitting that the wild man had tried to smell her lady parts. When she had finished, the men and Mwana looked at each other.

“What I want to know is where he came from,” Professor Porter said. “A white man, living wild in the jungle? And he doesn’t speak. Who is he?”

“He’s been there for years,” Muviro said, looking past Jane to the man in the bed. “At least fifteen, if I must put a number on it. That’s when the stories started, of the spirit in the jungle. If he belonged to anyone, I assure you we would know. But he is Tarzan.”

Through her distress, Jane recognized the root of the Koba word: _tarz_ , for the jungle, _an_ for creature. Creature of the jungle. Tarzan.

“Well, whoever he is, what matters now is that he rests,” Mwana said.

“Yes,” agreed Porter. “We’ll keep watch tonight. Maybe tomorrow he can speak to us.”

Jane looked at her wild man, at her bizarre fairy knight, mother naked and filthy in the guest bed’s pristine white sheets. From outside she could hear a distant animal cry. He stirred, opening his eyes and made a low cry, trying to respond. Jane sat down beside him and took his hand again.

“You must live,” she whispered. “You must live, Tarzan.”

His eyes swirled to her again, and fluttered closed. It was going to be a long night.  

 

 

Author's Note: Lots happening here! I very much enjoyed the new backstory for the initial meeting of Tarzan and Jane that was set up in the 2016 movie. Let's see what happens next, eh? Please let me know what you think in the comments, and thanks for reading!


	3. Words

**Chapter Two**

 

Jane opened her eyes to deep blue early morning light. She lay in her own bed, undressed to her chemise and drawers but still otherwise grubby from yesterday’s adventures. For a long moment she lay still, half-awake, and then the events that had brought her here came flooding back to her, and she sat up.

The last thing she remembered was settling back in a chair beside Tarzan’s bedside, intent on watching him through the night. Mwana had gone home, content to let them watch, and Professor Porter had brought the chairs in from the kitchen. He must have put Jane to bed when she fell asleep and stayed with the wild man himself. Jane rolled out of her bed and padded from her room to the guest room next door.

The little room was still and silent but for the steady breathing of sleeping men. _Two_ sleeping men. Her father lay snoring gently in his armchair, close at hand to Tarzan’s bed. And Tarzan lay sprawled on the mattress, the sheets twisted about him, his chest rising and falling with each breath. A wave of relief engulfed Jane, so strong that she put her hand on the doorframe to keep from sagging under it. He was alive. He would live.

The mystery of who he was remained. Jane stood there and took him in, knowing that she would have less time to do so once her father awoke. Tarzan was tall, outrageously tall, more so than almost any other man she had seen. He was lean and strong, and there wasn’t a spare ounce of flesh anywhere on his body. He was all ropey muscle and dirty skin and matted blonde hair, covered in scars and scratches. She remembered the interest with which he had looked on her yesterday, and wondered if she was the first woman he had ever seen. But that was silly--she knew that the Koba blamed any and all stolen goods on him. So what had sparked his interest?

Musing on this, Jane went back to her bedroom and stripped off her chemise and drawers. There was cold water in the basin on her dresser, and she took a cloth and washed herself before putting on fresh underwear. She found a clean linen skirt and a blue blouse in her dresser and put them on, and tied on her sandals. There. She felt human again.

Then through to the kitchen to put on the kettle. They were almost out of water; Jane took one of the buckets and walked out of the house towards the well. Few of the villagers were awake at this hour, but those who were hailed her, asking after Tarzan. There was no animosity in their voices, only curiosity. Chief Muviro had been able to calm their concerns.

At home, Jane began to prepare breakfast. She mixed together a batter of coconut milk and flour to make banana fritters, then began to cook a vat of rice porridge. She wasn’t sure what Tarzan ate out there in the jungle. Surely he didn’t farm, like the Koba did. Jane boiled an egg, just to be on the safe side.

There was movement in the little room across the hall.

“Jane?” Professor Porter called.

“Yes?”

Jane leaned out of the kitchen. Her father looked rumpled and still tired. He ran a hand through his greying hair.

“Go into your room and stay there until I call, will you? He needs to...make his ablutions.”

Jane grinned a little at that. “Let me just put out the stove.”

“Is there breakfast?” Porter asked, yawning.

“Yes, whenever you’re ready. How is he?”

Porter grimaced. “Alive, and entirely unhouse-trained. Bedroom. Now.”

Jane moved the porridge from the stove to the table and retreated to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She listened to the sound of her father coaxing the wild man out of his room, helping him to the outhouse outside. She wondered what had happened to make her father look so exasperated.

*

Tarzan had woken to the unfamiliar sounds of someone making noise in another room. He lay still in the strange nest the humans had laid him in, listening. It must be the female moving about; even through the pain yesterday he had noticed that her movements were softer, lighter, than the males. Besides, the male who had fixed his arm was asleep beside Tarzan’s nest, rumbling with every breath. Tarzan shifted, assessing himself.

Pain wracked his body. It hurt to breathe, to move, and his legs felt numb and his back sore. The bitter water the female had given him yesterday had dulled the pain, but it had also made him heavy and listless, dulling his senses. He had thought he heard his mother calling to him, and had tried to reply, only to find himself floating somewhere above his nest, looking down on the scene. Tarzan hoped this wouldn’t happen again.

He sighed, hating Kerchak with all he had in him. His encounters with the Mangani leader had never been cordial, but it galled him that Kerchak had tried to kill the female. What had he been doing that close to the jungle’s edge? The rest of the pack were miles away. He had not known that Kerchak was in the treetops, or he would not have led her straight to him. He shifted on the strange soft nest and whimpered. It felt as though every part of his body were broken. His broken arm was bound tight across his chest; Tarzan could wiggle his fingers, but anything more than that caused pain to shoot through him.

It had been worth it, though, meeting her, even if it hadn’t gone the way he had planned. She had made it easy by coming into the edges of the jungle. He shifted again, remembering. She had been startled but not frightened by his advances until he had smelled her legs. Did Man not do that? Perhaps not.

Tarzan breathed into the pain. He had been injured before, even by Kerchak, and knew that it would be a long time before he was healed. He had never been away from his mother when injured, and felt a thrill of fear. Did she know where he was? He had thought he heard her calling, but maybe it had been a dream. The red-haired female had been here, that he was certain of. And the older male--her father?--who had set his arm was there, but not the other woman. They had wrapped him in cloths, taking care of him human-fashion, and tucked cushions under his legs. It was uncomfortable, unfamiliar. And he had to pee. Tarzan made a noise. The older male awoke.

“Eh, there you are, still with us,” he said, and though his words were meaningless to Tarzan, their tone soothed him. The male bent over him. “Water?”

He slid an arm under Tarzan’s back and helped him half-sit to drink from a funny clear gourd. This water was sweet, not bitter, and it didn’t make him float into the air. Tarzan twitched, wondering whether or not he should just pee in the nest. The male noticed.

“No, don’t do that. Come on now, sit up. That’s it, lean on me.”

He levered Tarzan out of the bed, wrapping an arm about his waist. It hurt, but Tarzan found his feet and was able to stagger upright. It took all that he had to stand, and he could barely put any weight on his feet, barely hold himself upright. The man reached for the sheet to wrap him in and for a moment they stared at each other. Then the man shrugged and called out into the house.

“Jane? Go into your room and stay there until I call, will you?”

The female replied; he heard her feet moving away from them. The male nodded and helped Tarzan to stagger out of the room. They moved out of the house together, towards a little hut that contained a carved wooden seat and a foul stench. Tarzan stared, bewildered. A bush would have been fine, but he had no idea what the man wanted him to do.

“Here, in the latrine, like this.” The man unbuttoned his trousers and peed in the hole. Then he buttoned himself back up and indicated to Tarzan.

Fair enough.

Outside, Tarzan breathed deeply in the fresh  jungle air. It was early, the sky still a deep blue dome overhead. All around them came raucous birdsong. Tarzan could smell the trees, the dirt, the river in the distance. He could smell the older man. He could smell frying bananas and woodsmoke, the scents of human food. He breathed in as deeply as his broken ribs would let him, and felt himself relax.

“Come,” the older man said, taking Tarzan’s good arm and looping it over his shoulders. “Come inside now, son, that’s it.”

They walked back into the house. The effort it took to walk frightened Tarzan. Pain tore at his back, making his legs numb and heavy. He had been injured before, even badly, but he had never not been able to move his feet. The man took him back to the nest and helped him to lie down, tucking cushions under his aching back to help him sit upright. He covered Tarzan’s legs and hips with the white sheet. Tarzan didn’t like that. He tried to take it off, but the man brought the sheet up again. He gestured at Tarzan’s loins, and shook his head.

“No,” he said, his voice kind but firm. “No nudity in this house, I’m afraid.”

He indicated his own trousers, how they covered his legs and loins. Tarzan sighed, understanding. He let the man fold the sheet back over him.

“Good,” the man said, smiling. He patted Tarzan’s good shoulder. “Very good. Jane!”

There was a rustle and the female appeared. Tarzan looked up, pleased to see her. She looked different today; her clothes the same pale blue and brown she had worn when he first saw her, her red hair brushed back from her face. She held a slab of wood in her hands, on which rested human food.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling a little at him, and though he did not understand what she said, he recognized a greeting.

“Jane,” he said.

She and her father looked up, surprised. “Yes, I’m Jane,” she said, tapping her breast. “Jane. Father.” She touched the older man’s arm.

“Father,” Tarzan repeated. Jane and Father. He made the low hooting sound that was his Mangani name.

Jane nodded. “Tarzan,” she said, touching his arm. She tapped herself again, then the man. “Jane. Father.”

“Jane,” he agreed.

“Exactly.” Her lips quirked upwards; she was pleased.

“Breakfast,” she continued, indicating the food she had brought in. “Cereal. Banana fritters. Egg.”

She touched each thing as she named it, tapping her fingers lightly over the food. Tarzan recognized eggs; he reached out and took one, put his thumb through the shell so that he could drink the contents. Only the egg squished, solid inside. Bewildered, he looked up at Jane. Seeing his confusion, she took the egg from him and began to peel it. The shell gave way to a strange, soft solid. Tarzan stared at it, bewildered.

“Eat,” Jane said, and took a bite from the egg. Tarzan watched as the pale orange yolk appeared. It, too, was solid. She handed it back to him and he took a cautious bite. It was chewy, and while it tasted good, it was entirely different from the eggs he was used to. He wasn’t sure that he liked it.

“Wait,” Father murmured, and left the room. A moment later he returned, carrying an egg that he put into Tarzan’s hand. When Tarzan put his thumb through it, it cracked as it should. He drank the contents and let the shell fall. Jane palmed the egg shell and put it on her tray.

“He’s never had cooked food,” Porter said. “Amazing.”

“Here, try this. Rice cereal,” Jane said, handing him a wooden bowl.

Tarzan took it in his one good hand and smelled the contents. The cereal was white and lumpy and smelled of spices and coconut milk. He tipped his head back and drank; it was hot and good. Never in his life had he tasted anything as nice as this. He drank it all and licked the bowl clean. Jane and Father, watching as they ate their own cereal, smiled.

“Try this,” Jane said again, holding out the platter of banana fritters. She wondered what he would think of them; the look on his face as he’d drunk his cereal had been beatific. Tarzan took one of the fritters, sniffed it as before, licked it, and ate it whole. He looked up at Jane in wonder. She grinned.

“Banana fritter,” she said slowly.

“Banana fritter,” he agreed, solemn. He took another.  

“Extraordinary,” Porter murmured. “He has no language at all.”

“But he can learn,” Jane said. He had learned her name.

“Yes,” Professor Porter agreed, rising to take the breakfast things though to the kitchen. “Yes, he can.”

Tarzan did not understand any of this. He finished his third fritter and, sated, leaned back on the cushions and closed his eyes. He felt safe here with Jane and Father, for the most part, but even a full belly and the knowledge that these humans were good could not distract him from the pain that wracked his body. He flexed his legs under the sheet and whimpered. Jane, settled in the chair next to the bed, stood.

“Medicine,” she said, reaching for the brown bottle of stuff they had given him the night before.

Tarzan clamped his lips shut. No. He did not want to float again. Jane frowned. She poured a sizeable slug of laudanum into a glass, added water, and held it out to him.

“Come on, it will help you,” she said, her voice low and kind. “Medicine is good. Come on.”

Tarzan snarled as she tried to hold it to his lips. He knocked the glass from her hands; it shattered on the floor, water spilling everywhere. Jane snarled back at him.

“Fine, don’t drink it! Suffer in silence, then!” she cried, dropping to the floor to pick up the pieces.

“What happened?” Father called.

“He broke a glass,” Jane said, exasperated. “He won’t take his medicine!”

She gave Tarzan such a fierce glare that he shrank from her, and stormed out of the room. Tarzan stared after her, nonplussed. He had not thought that the cup would break, or that Jane would be angry. He could hear her in the other room, banging around and grumbling. They were so noisy, these humans, always stomping and banging. A stabbing of homesickness coursed through Tarzan. He wanted his mother, who would let him rest for hours in a cool nest of ferns and leaves, bringing him the purple flower that eased pain and fever. He wanted Akut, who would bring him fruit to eat. He wanted to heal as the Mangani healed, as he had always healed before. For the thousandth time in his life, he wished death on Kerchak--not that a new leader might not take exception to Tarzan. He had always been an oddity in the pack. He sighed and closed his eyes, biting back a low cry. The pain really was excruciating.

From outside came a low cry. Tarzan’s eyes flew open. He knew that voice. Mother. Struggling upright on one arm, he maneuvered himself out of the nest. If he could get to the window, if he could at least let her know that he was safe, he would feel better. His legs tingled and ached, barely supporting his weight, but Tarzan forced himself upright and managed to attain the window. He fumbled with the shutter and pushed it open.

 _Mother, where are you?_ He called once, then again.

 _My child_ , came the low response. _My child, do you live?_

_Yes, mother._

_Do they hurt you?_

_No, mother, they are good. Kerchak hurt me. Kerchak tried to kill the female. Now they help me._

_Will you return?_

_When I am well._

_My child, I love you._

_My mother, I love_ **_you_ ** _._

“Tarzan? What are you doing?”

Tarzan turned from the window and stumbled, falling to the floor. Pain crashed through him and he yelped. Professor Porter shoved Jane out into the corridor and hurried over to him.

“What are you doing out of bed? You’re in no condition to walk on your own! Come lie down at once.”

The words tumbled around Tarzan’s head, nonsense sounds, but he understood that Father did not like him to move. He settled back into his nest-bed, the hated sheet wrapped around his waist. Tarzan was hot, and in pain, and bitterly wished that he was well. He growled his frustration, tears pricking at his eyes.

“I know, son, I know. It is hard to be injured,” Father said. “Rest now.”

He went to the window and looked out. Tarzan wondered if his mother was still there; he hoped that she would stay safe from the humans. He did not like the idea of her being so close to the village. And he hurt, so badly, and he had made Jane angry so that she went away. The tears spilled down his cheeks and he lay gulping, unable to keep them back. Father, turning from the window, saw Tarzan’s tears and took a handkerchief out of his pocket.  

“Come now, Tarzan, it is all right,” he said, dabbing the tears from Tarzan’s eyes. “That’s it, come on now, don’t cry. It’s all right.”

Tarzan whimpered; the tears wouldn’t stop. He wanted to go _home_. Father settled down beside him and stroked his hair, murmuring gently. And somehow, despite everything, Tarzan found himself soothed. Slowly the tears stopped, but Father stayed there beside him, and he was grateful.

A new voice, a female voice, called out somewhere in the house; Jane and Father both responded. Footsteps padded down to Tarzan’s room, and one of the village women came in, Jane on her heels. Tarzan recognized her: the older woman who had tended to him yesterday. Her black hair was braided back from her face and she wore a dress of soft yellow. There was a basket slung over her back. Her face was kind, but Tarzan looked at her warily. So many humans, so close to him. He didn’t know what to do.

“Good morning, Tarzan,” the woman said. She touched her breast. “I am Mwana. Mwana.”

Tarzan blinked in acknowledgement. He wondered what she wanted. Mwana came closer and set her basket down on the bedside table. Tarzan watched her closely. From the basket she took a number of small, pungent-smelling clay pots and set them out. There were cloths, too, and a handful of smooth oval pebbles. Lastly came something that Mwana held carefully in the palm of her hand. She held it out to Tarzan, a smile on her lips.

“For you,” she said.

In Mwana’s palm rested a small wooden elephant. Its ears were flared and its trunk was raised, and it was sanded to a smooth finish and painted a soft red. Tarzan looked at it, delighted. He loved elephants. Slowly, carefully, he reached out to touch it, uncertain of what Mwana wanted him to do. The wood was soft and warm under his fingers. He raised his eyes to her again.

“Go on,” Mwana said, gesturing. “For you, Tarzan.”

He took the figure from her, folding his fingers around it. How had they made this? Here was wood, but how was it red? And how had they made the wood into an elephant? He turned it over and over, examining it closely. Then he looked up at Jane, who hadn’t spoken to him since he broke her glass, and held it up for her to see, hoping that she would see the apology in his gesture.

Jane smiled and came to sit next to him. “Elephant,” she said, tapping the little toy. “Elephant.”

“Elephant,” Tarzan repeated. “El-la-phant.”

“Yes,” Jane said, grinning. “That’s right.”

Tarzan pressed his lips together and made an elephant call, loud and piercing. Everybody jumped.

“Yes, that’s a very good elephant,” Father said wryly. “Good job.”

They laughed, and Tarzan relaxed. It was a nice sound they were making, and they looked happy. He smiled at them, at Jane. She put her hand on his good arm.

“Mwana helps you now,” she said. “Mwana is good.”

He did not understand, but he let the Koba woman bend over him and untie the sling that held his broken arm to his chest. He flexed his fingers and straightened his arm--the shoulder and broken collarbones twinged. Tarzan gasped.

Mwana reached into her basket. “Here. Medicine.”

At the word, Tarzan clamped his lips shut and glared. Jane sighed and explained to Mwana about the spilled laudanum and the broken glass. Tarzan held onto the little carved elephant and wished that he knew how to communicate with them. He wished he could explain that he didn’t like what the medicine did to him. But Mwana was laughing.

“My medicine is different,” she said, taking the lid from one of her tiny pots.

She held it out for him to smell. Tarzan hesitated, then bent his nose to it. There was some unctuous fluid inside, smelling strongly of jungle herbs. He went to taste it, but Mwana pulled the pot back.

“No,” she said clearly, and he understood that he was not to do it.

Mwana put her fingers into the pot and removed a dollop of ointment. This she spread on Tarzan’s injured shoulder, her movements gentle. It was cool on his skin, and then warm, and it soothed the ache. With gentle hands and unwinding bandages as she went, Mwana spread the ointment over Tarzan’s bruised and aching body. She rolled Tarzan onto his belly and spread the stuff over his lower back, crooning gently to him whenever the pain became too much and he moaned.

“He needs a bath,” Mwana said at last, straightening. “The hot water will do him good. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“I don’t think he’s ever had a bath in his life,” Porter remarked, looking over the wild man.

“No,” agreed Mwana. “But he has no fleas or ticks or crawlers. He is as clean as he knows how to be.”

Tarzan understood none of this, but he could have told them that his mother groomed him daily. First Akut, then Tarzan, and then they were free to eat and play. And he swam, quite often in fact, but did not equate water with cleanliness. But all such thought was nonexistent in that moment. Tarzan lay limp on the mattress, his body tingling with Mwana’s ointment. It had dulled the pain a little, but he still hurt. He shifted and whimpered, wanting his mother. He clutched the little toy elephant. Somehow it reminded him of the shiny orange stone his mother always carried.

“Here,” Mwana said, and cast the sheet away so that Jane had to turn away. She began to manipulate Tarzan’s legs, bending and stretching them. “Good, Tarzan. Good.”

It did not feel good; it hurt, but he realized that she was helping him and did not fight. At last, Mwana released him and covered him up again. Tarzan was confused; she had not been upset by his nakedness. How was he to stretch his legs if they were covered? It was all so confusing. Mwana took a bundle of herbs from her basket. Peeling a few  of the purple flowers off, she rolled them into a ball and held them to Tarzan’s lips. He felt a surge of relief. Here was medicine that he recognized; the Mangani ate them to help with pain. Tarzan chewed the flowers up and swallowed. The taste was bitter, potent, and familiar. He knew it would make him sleep soon.

“Jane?” he said, swallowing, and reached for her.

“Yes,” Jane said, and took his hand. “Rest now, Tarzan. Sleep.”

The words were just sounds, but he obeyed her. The flowers were working their magic; already his body was growing heavy, the pain dissipating. He closed his eyes and slept.

“He liked that better than laudanum,” Jane murmured as Tarzan’s breathing deepened and evened out.

Mwana chuckled. “This does not surprise me. You gave him an awful lot of it. He probably began to hallucinate.”

Jane winced. “I wasn’t sure how much to give him. Look at him; he’s huge!”

They all contemplated Tarzan. Even lying there swaddled in bandages, he was a force to be reckoned with. Mwana grinned.

“He is a man,” she said, and Porter grimaced at the admiration in her voice. “Look at that body! He is built for speed and endurance.”

Jane blushed; these had been her own unvoiced thoughts. Tarzan reminded her of Greek sculptures she had seen pictures of. Remembering the way he had touched her and smelled her yesterday, before she had hit him, made her insides twist.

“Yes, well,” Father said. “Let him sleep.”

Mwana caught Jane’s eye and winked.

*

The combination of medicine with his own healing body did the trick; Tarzan slept until mid-afternoon. Jane was prepared when he awoke. She had spent her time gathering up the picture books that she and her father had brought to the village long ago: colorful primers so that their African friends might learn English, and storybooks to share. There was even a Bantu primer that Jane had crafted as a child while learning that language. She gathered the books together, along with Porter’s blackboard and chalk, and a spare notebook, and put them all in Tarzan’s room for when he awoke.

“I hope you won’t be disappointed if he doesn’t take to language,” Porter said, watching her wrestle with the blackboard and its stand. “He’s nearly full-grown; it might be beyond him.”

“We don’t know until we try,” Jane replied, glancing over at the sleeping wild man. She let go of the blackboard; it stood upright and she grinned, triumphant. “As you always say. He’s already learned a few words.”

Porter had to concede that point. He had to wonder at the boy’s first choice of words. “Jane” he had said, and his whole face had changed from wary to calm. And he had approached Jane yesterday, in the jungle. Porter wondered about that. Nothing untoward had happened, disregarding the Mangani attack, but all the same, he wondered at the wild man’s motives. Still, Porter was a scientist, and he had to confess himself fascinated. Wait and see, he decided.

Although she kept one ear cocked to hear him, settling down to work in the parlor, it was Chief Muviro, arriving to speak to them, who alerted Jane to Tarzan’s waking.

“Your wild man is peeing out the window,” he said, standing in the front doorway, a smile playing about his lips.

“What? Oh, no,” Porter groaned, and rushed from the room.

Muviro chuckled, listening to the sounds from the back of the house. “Are you having problems with him?”

“No, not really,” Jane replied, setting aside her watercolors. “He doesn’t speak any language, so it’s a bit hard to communicate with him. And he’s in a lot of pain, but he doesn’t like our medicine. He took Mwana’s.”

Muviro laughed at that. “Laudanum is a fiend, Janey. Our man probably floated straight out of his body.”

Jane grinned, sheepish. “Yes, Mwana said the same. Perhaps I won’t risk it again.”

Porter came back then, a rueful look on his face. “Forgive me, Chief; he’s sorted now. Would you like to meet him?”

“In a moment, my friend. Are you aware that there is a she-ape out there,” Muviro said, gesturing towards the nearby jungle. “Do you not hear her calling?”

“I did, all night,” Porter replied. “What do you think it wants?”

Muviro gave them an amused look. “You are an educated man, my friend; I would think it obvious. She wants her child. _Him_.”

Porter’s eyebrows went up; he and Jane glanced at each other. “You think he lives with the apes?”

“Yes,” Muviro said, as though that were obvious. “Or at least he is friendly with them. Not the one who tried to kill them, but many of them.”

Professor Porter considered this. “He has no language, no human habits…”

There was a low call from the guestroom, the sound of an unhappy animal calling to its companions. Jane broke away and left the room, hurrying to their guest’s side. The men looked after her, and Porter ran a hand over his face.

“He is very attached to Jane. I’m not sure what to think of that.”

Muviro shrugged. “He initiated contact with Jane. That says something to me. He has never approached the village before this.”

“I did wonder about that,” Porter said. “About him approaching Janey. Why do you think-”

“He is a young man, my friend, and Janey is a pretty woman. But,” and Muviro shrugged again, “perhaps beyond that, his curiosity simply got the better of him. I don’t think you have anything to fear. He has no guile.”

Professor Porter nodded. He would keep a close eye on the wild man in the coming days, but he knew that Jane could hold her own--the Koba women had taught her well--and anyway, the young man was the most intriguing thing to happen in Porter’s long career of intriguing events.

“I am going to warn my people against the jungle for the time being,” Muviro said, “and tell them not to disturb the she-ape. Kill a Mangani and the rest won’t stop until you are dead.”

“Indeed. Perhaps you could tell the people to treat him gently. I doubt he means any harm."

Muviro nodded. "I have said so already. We must wait and see how this plays out."

 *

The low call led Jane back to the room that she was already beginning to think of as Tarzan’s. The man himself was half-sitting up in bed, disconsolately playing with his hair. The sheet was once again wrapped firmly about his waist. They were going to have to see about clothing for him. A Koba skirt, maybe, Jane thought.

“Hello,” she said, and Tarzan raised his grey eyes to hers.

“Hello,” he parotted, but there was no cheer in his voice. If anything, he looked depressed by the ways of man.

Jane put her hand into her pocket and withdrew the handkerchief he had taken from her yesterday. She held it out to him.

“Here, handkerchief,” she said. “You dropped it yesterday. I saved it for you.”

Tarzan folded his fingers around the square of cloth, raised it to his nose and sniffed it. He gave Jane a small smile.

“Handkerchief?”

“Yes, good. Handkerchief.”

“Handkerchief,” he whispered to himself, and sighed, giving her a frustrated look. He made a low noise.

“I know,” Jane said. “It’s hard not to be able to talk with people. But look. Look. This is a blackboard. Look. _I am Jane_.”

She wrote out the conjugation while Tarzan watched her, his grey eyes wide and interested. _I am Jane. You are Tarzan. He is Father. She is Mwana. We are people. They are people._ Together, using signs to help them, they said the words aloud.

“I am Tarzan. You are Jane.”

“Yes, good! I am happy. Happy.” She smiled, then touched his shoulder. “You are sad. Sad.” And she frowned.

Tarzan thought about this and nodded. Yes, he was sad. “I am-” he stopped, not having the word. He made a low moan. “I am bad. Bad.”

“You are hurt,” Jane said. “You are in pain.”

“In pain,” Tarzan repeated. “I am...banana fritter?”

Jane laughed. “You want a banana fritter. That’s another verb entirely. But wait.”

She went through into the kitchen, still smiling to herself, and fetched back a cold banana fritter. Tarzan ate it and smiled.

“It is good,” he said haltingly, and Jane knew then that he could learn.

Tarzan’s eyes looked beyond her, a wary look filling them; Jane turned and saw her father and Chief Muviro standing in the doorway.

“Tarzan, this is Chief Muviro, leader of the Koba. Chief,” she said, standing, “let me hug you. Then he’ll know you are a friend.”

“A reasonable tactic.” Muviro chuckled and embraced Jane, then looked beyond her to Tarzan. The younger man had straightened in bed and was watching with curious eyes. “Hello, Tarzan. Welcome.”

Here was a new person, a male, a warrior. Tarzan studied him carefully, wishing that he were safely hidden in the trees, where he could observe without fear. Jane liked this man; that much was obvious. And Father did, too; both of their faces looked calm and happy. The man was tall, the same height as Father, but there the similarities ended. This man was not broken, the way that Father and Jane and Tarzan were. His hair was gathered at the top of his head in a kind of fin, and he wore a skirt wrapped around his hips, and many ropes of beads and shells hung around his neck. He smiled at Tarzan, and made a gesture of peace and friendship. Tarzan twitched his own lips in response.

“Hello,” he said, and glanced at Jane, hoping he got the word order right. “I am Tarzan.”

And another step was taken.

They spent the rest of the afternoon together after the men left them alone, Jane sitting cross-legged on the bed beside him. Tarzan liked that, and he liked the books that she had brought in to show him. He liked the words that she taught him. To be, to have, to go. To eat, to sleep. Bed. Table. Door. Window. Book. Dress. Blanket. Hair. Hands. Something about the words and the order that they went in made sense to Tarzan. And the books--he had seen books before, he realized, in the treehouse by the big water. But those were different than these; most of them had no pictures. These were simple stories, and they made words with pictures. _A is for Archer, B is for Boy, C is for Cat_ . Jane pointed to each letter--there were twenty four of them--and made their sound, and wrote them out on the blackboard for him to memorize. _I is for Insect. J is for Jug. K is for Kick_.

“I have hands,” Tarzan said.

“I have eyes,” replied Jane.  

“I have feet,” Tarzan said.

“I have legs.”

“I have ears.”

“I have nose.”

“I have banana fritter?”

Jane fell about laughing and Tarzan grinned. It was good to have words.

*

They were good, these humans, Tarzan realized. He had always regarded them as harbingers of death, but these people, this tribe, they were not interested in killing him, hunting him and his family. He met more of them in the coming days: Muviro’s son Wasimbu, and Wasimbu’s cousin Kwete, and Mwana’s daughter Eshe, and others. They came to the house, singly or in pairs, to introduce themselves to Tarzan and to bring him small presents: banana fritters or grilled fruit, or a necklace made of cowrie shells, or small carven animals like the one Mwana had given him. They smiled, and laughed, and they talked with Jane and Father, and slowly, slowly, Tarzan began to let go of the fear he had always had of them.

 

 

 

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I hope you've enjoyed the chapter. Please let me know what you think in the comments!


	4. The Bath

**Chapter Three**

 

Four days after his unexpected arrival in their home, Professor Porter and Mwana gave Tarzan a bath. 

Tarzan knew that something was up when he awoke. Jane came through to his room with a tray of rice cereal and a bowl of fruit, water all down the front of her dress. He reached out and plucked at it. 

“You are wet?”

“Yes,” she said. “Father makes bath.”

“To make” was one of the verbs she had taught him; he knew that it meant to create something from nothing. Tarzan liked words. He liked the shape of them in his mouth, and he liked how the sounds enabled him to communicate with the humans. He liked the games Jane and Father played with him, and way they could draw words on the blackboard. Already Tarzan had managed to memorize what they called ‘the alphabet’ and had mastered the present and questioning forms of “to be” and “to have”. 

“What is bath?” he asked now, helping himself to the rice cereal. 

“A bath is where you wash,” Jane replied. “Look.”

She went to the blackboard and drew a funny round tub full of water, and a person sitting in it, splashing. Tarzan grinned. He knew swimming. He made the motions at Jane with his good arm. 

“No, not swimming. Swimming is like this,” she said, and drew a person paddling in the river. “A bath is different. A bath is…”

How did you describe a bath to someone who had never had one? They had cleaned Tarzan’s scratches and abrasions after the Mangani attack, but Tarzan had been in no fit state to notice. Mwana came daily to tend to him, ensuring that the scrapes didn’t become infected, and Tarzan tolerated her ministrations, but that couldn’t be considered a bath. Apes groomed each other, Jane knew, and the Mangani were a kind of ape. She hesitated, then mimed washing herself, and scrubbing her hair. Comprehension dawned across Tarzan’s face. 

“Bath,” he said, and reached for Jane’s hair. 

She let him run his hand through her hair, looking for tangles and crawling things, before drawing back and shaking her head. 

“I do not have bath,” she said, keeping her language as simple as possible. “ _ You _ have bath.”

Oh. Tarzan sat up on the pillows, gasped a little as pain shot through him, and leaned his head towards her. Jane grinned and patted his matted hair. 

“Good,” she said. “But you have a human bath. With Father and Mwana.”

“Is good?”

Jane nodded. “Yes, it is good. You will like it.”

“Like” meant that he would enjoy something. He liked banana fritters. He liked rice cereal. He liked Jane, and Father, and Mwana. Tarzan was less certain of the others who visited the house--so many people made him nervous--but so far they had only helped him. But they had not groomed him at all, but for the wounds on his body, and Tarzan disliked that. He was used to being groomed every day. 

Father came through a short time later, and sent Jane away. 

“She no have bath?” Tarzan asked, wincing as his lower back twinged and pulled as he struggled out of bed.  

“No, Jane does not have a bath,” Father said. “ _ You _ have a bath. Only you.”

Oh. The ways of humans were strange, indeed. Father hooked his arms about Tarzan’s waist and helped him gain his feet. Despite the exercises that Mwana helped him to do, Tarzan’s legs still felt weak and numb. He wondered if he would ever be able to walk properly again. 

They limped out of his nest-room, through to the little room that contained a table and chairs, some cabinets, and a cook stove, though Tarzan did not have the words to describe them, leaving Jane to strip the bed and replace the sheets. Father guided him out to the back porch, where a reed curtain was drawn against prying eyes and Mwana waited beside a tin hip bath full of steaming water. Buckets and pots of hot water sat around the bath, waiting to be used. Father untied Tarzan’s sling and loosened the bandages binding his ribs. 

“Hello, Tarzan,” Mwana said, smiling at him. “Are you ready for your bath?”

Tarzan shrugged his good shoulder. “What is?”

“You’ll see,” Mwana said. 

“Jane says good,” Tarzan said, eyeing the tub of steaming water, the soap and the towels and the sponges. 

“Jane is right,” Mwana said. “Come on now. In you get.”

Tarzan hesitated. Father nudged him forward, and he stepped into the tub. He gasped, delighted. The water was hot. 

“Sit down, there’s a good lad,” Father said. “Sit. Sit.”

Tarzan crouched down, folding his long limbs into the bath, gasping at the way his muscles pulled. Mwana made a soft clucking sound and brushed her hand over his hair. The hot water felt nice, though, and it soothed his aching body. He looked up at Father and Mwana. Now what?

Father lifted a small pot and poured warm water over Tarzan’s shoulders and back. He did it again, tipping the pot over his head, and Tarzan found himself relaxing. This was nice. It was unusual, but it felt good. Father took a cake of soap and worked it into a lather between his hands, giving it to Tarzan to hold while he scrubbed the younger man’s skin with a soft sponge. Dirt came away from Tarzan’s body in layers, sloughed away with the soap and sponge, arms and legs and hands and feet, chest and belly and back. As he scrubbed, Mwana tipped Tarzan’s head back and rubbed soap into his hair, singing quietly. Tarzan leaned into their hands as they groomed him. It felt good to be taken care of, even if the water Mwana poured over his hair did get into his nose and eyes and made him splutter. 

“Now,” Father said at last. “Move to your knees. That’s it. Good, just like that. Now take the soap and lather it up. Good! That’s good. Now wash your loins.”

He mimed the action and Tarzan scrubbed himself with the soap, and splashed in the hot water. 

“Why?” he asked, when they motioned for him to do it again. He had never bathed like this before. 

“It is important to be clean,” Father replied. “It is good to be clean. Good for you.”

“Human people wash themselves,” Mwana said cheerily. 

Human people. Tarzan looked up and choked as Mwana poured more water over his head, rinsing the soap out. “I am human?”

They both stopped and stared at him. Tarzan pushed his sopping hair out of his face and stared back. 

“ _ Yes _ , Tarzan, you are human,” Father said. “I am human. Mwana is human. You are human.”

“Oh.” This was new and curious information. “I am broken human.”

“No,” Mwana said. “Not broken. Different.”

“Different,” Tarzan repeated. It meant not the same. He didn’t understand.

“You are wild,” Father said. “But you are a man. Stand up now. Stand. Good.”

Tarzan rose, letting the water stream off of him. He felt reluctant to leave the hot water; it felt so good against his skin. His back didn’t hurt as much now. He took the cloth that Father handed him and, stepping out of the bath, rubbed himself dry. His skin felt raw and tight, stripped of all the layers of dirt that had coated Tarzan his entire life. It was an odd sensation, but not an unpleasant one. Indeed, he rather liked it. 

Mwana put gentle firm hands on his shoulders and turned him to face her. She took a pot of her ointment and rubbed it into Tarzan’s skin, smoothing it over the healing scratches and the deep, dark bruises on front and back. His skin went cold, then hot, and the pain faded again. 

“Is good,” Tarzan said.

“Yes,” Mwana agreed. “You are going to get well.”

“Get well?”

“Yes,” Mwana rubbed her hands together, absorbing the rest of the ointment. “Now stretch for me. Arms. Good. Now legs. Good!”

Tarzan moved as she showed him, circling his arms, which hurt a bit, and stretching his legs and back, which hurt a lot. He growled. 

“Easy,” Mwana said, which made no sense to Tarzan. She took him by the elbows and held him still, and he subsided, watching. “No more bandages, I think, Professor; it is better to let the ribs heal naturally now. Maybe a few more days with the sling. Hand me that cloth, won’t you?”

“Shouldn’t we dress him first?” Porter asked.

Mwana grinned. “Jane won’t come outside, if that’s what concerns you, my friend, but yes. Look, Tarzan! This is a skirt. Skirt.”

“Skirt,” Tarzan repeated, looking at the green and brown patterned cloth that Mwana held up. He touched it with light fingers; it was finely woven and soft. “What is?”

“For you,” Mwana said, and wrapped it about his waist, back to front and around again. She secured it with a firm knot and two pins. 

Tarzan stood stiff, elbows out, as Mwana dressed him. This was the way the Koba men dressed. The cloth was soft against his skin, supple, but it was strange to have it around his legs and loins. Constricting. But Mwana and Father both looked pleased, and maybe now they wouldn’t make him lie under that horrible sheet all of the time. Mwana stepped back and grinned. Tarzan lowered his hands and smoothed them over his new skirt. 

“Good,” he said, and grinned. “It is good.”

Father grinned back. “We’ll make a human of you yet. Arm in the sling, now. Good, Tarzan.”

He did not like the sling, but it took the pressure off of his broken collarbone, and Tarzan did not fight it. Mwana fussed with his hair, twitching the long snarls. 

“You’ve never brushed your hair in your life, have you? No matter. I think we won’t cut it for now,” she said. 

“What is?”

“Cut. All off. No more hair.” Mwana made the motions with her hands and Tarzan stepped back from her and put his hand to his hair, glaring. Mwana laughed. “No, Tarzan. I will not cut your hair. No fear.”

Tarzan kept one hand on his long hair as they led him back into the house. He did not want it cut. He may be human, and he may be clean, and wearing human clothes, but his hair was a part of him and he would not surrender it. He was still a Mangani. 

“Jane,” Tarzan said, as Father helped him back inside. “Where is Jane?”

“Jane!” Father called. “Where are you? Our guest wants to see you.”

There was a sound from the front room, and Jane came through to the kitchen. Her face was open, kind-looking; it changed to an expression of astonishment as she looked at Tarzan. A sudden rush of shyness swept over Tarzan. 

“Jane,” he said, “I am bath.”

Jane smiled. “You are clean. You look very fine.”

Father chuckled. “He looks less like a jungle spirit and more like a young man, doesn’t he?”

“Is good?” Tarzan asked. He wasn’t certain what Father meant, but both he and Jane were smiling. 

“Yes,” Jane said. She came forward and tapped his good arm lightly. “You are good.”

Tarzan smiled. Good. 

“Come now, back to bed,” Father said, urging him forward.

Tarzan reached out and folded his fingers around Jane’s sleeve. “I am with Jane? No bed. With Jane.”

Jane and Father glanced at each other. “He can come into my room for a bit,” Jane said. “It’s boring, being cooped up in one place. We can have a language lesson.”

For a moment she thought that her father would protest that it was improper for a young man to be alone with Jane in her room. He had certainly never allowed the village boys to enter Jane’s bedroom. But they were civilized--Tarzan wasn’t. Far from it. The rules, Jane felt, did not apply to him. Porter seemed to think this, too, because he nodded. 

“Yes, all right. Tarzan, go with Jane, then. But leave the door open.”

Jane smiled. Tarzan let go of Porter’s arm and followed her, moving stiffly on his aching legs, across the hall to her room. Jane moved ahead of him, meaning to clear her table of the sketches she had been working on. She did not want Tarzan to see that she had been working on a study of him. 

“Sit down on my bed,” she said, glancing over at her wild man. 

Tarzan was looking around Jane’s room with interest. Jane followed his eyes as they skimmed over her pictures and books and the trinkets she had acquired over her life both here and in America. He gestured around the room. 

“Jane’s nest?”

“Yes,” she said. “My room. My bedroom. Come sit down.”

He allowed her to tug him over to her bed, and settled onto it when she insisted. Tarzan swung his legs up onto the mattress and settled against the pillows with a sigh. Jane fetched some of the cushions from his room and propped his legs on them. 

“Is it good?” she asked. 

Tarzan nodded. “Yes. No hurt in my-” he gestured to his back. 

“Your back,” Jane said. “Good, I’m glad. Well. Welcome.”

Tarzan settled back and looked about the little room. Everything in the house was little, close together, but somehow it seemed more comfortable than claustrophobic. Jane’s room had two windows looking out at the village and the slope down to the river. Blue curtains hung over them, and the shutters were flung open to let the fresh air in. The bed had curtains, too, soft thin white ones that Tarzan could see through when he lifted the fabric up to his face. The blanket was green like jungle grass, and soft. There were shelves in the room, full of books that were bigger than the ones Jane had brought into Tarzan’s room. There were small objects on the shelves, too; carved birds and wooden boxes and a jar holding pens and sticks and feathers. Her table was covered in paper and paints. The whole room smelled of her, soft and clean, and of the jungle flowers she had put in cups around it. Jane watched him looking around and smiled. 

“It’s different from the jungle, isn’t it?”

Tarzan nodded, his eyes roaming over the pictures on the walls. Most of them were Jane’s sketches and paintings, and pictures she had cut from the months-old British and American magazines imported from Boma. There were some photographs, too, and she watched his eyes settle on the one closest to her bed. 

“What is?” he asked, pointing at it. 

Jane took the little frame off of the wall and held it up. “It’s a photograph of my family. Look, see? Here is Father, and here am I, and here is my mother.”

Tarzan took the picture in his hands and peered at it. Three people stood holding themselves stiff, staring unsmiling up at him. Without being told, he could see that their clothing was heavy and formal. It looked uncomfortable. Father was much younger, without the grey in his hair and with a lot of hair over his upper lip that wasn’t there anymore. He looked as if the cloth around his neck was strangling him. The woman was also young. She looked a lot like Jane, with enormous skirts and lots of fluffy hair pinned back from her face. Between them stood a little girl in frills and lace, with her hair all wound into curls: Jane, as a child. Her hair, in the photograph, looked white, her skin grey. Tarzan frowned; all of the colors were wrong. 

“Why not red?” he asked, stabbing his finger down at the little girl’s face.

“What, my hair?” Jane asked. “Because there is no color in photographs. Um.” How to explain photography? “The picture is black and white because it is real human people, not a sketch. See? This is a sketch.”

She snatched up her sketchbook and opened it to a half-completed drawing of a Mangani ape. Tarzan compared the two, eyebrows drawn together. 

“Is different,” he said at last, nodding. “I understand. Where is she?”

He tapped the mother’s face. He had never seen her before, but here she was in the photograph beside Father. A sad look passed over Jane’s face, and she sighed. 

“She is dead, I’m afraid. No more alive.”

“Oh.” Tarzan knew about death; it happened all of the time in the jungle. “How?”

“She was sick, for a long time. Her body couldn’t get well, so she died, only a year after we took this photograph.”

Jane looked so unbearably sad that Tarzan leaned forward and put his good arm around her. It was the first time he had touched her body since that first meeting in the jungle, and this time, Jane did not lean backwards in alarm. She hugged him back, and patted his shoulder. 

“Thank you, Tarzan. We came to Africa after she died, Father and I. I was little, only eleven. We’ve lived here ever since.”

Tarzan wondered what she meant by Africa, and asked. Jane brought over a picture atlas and showed him the world, and Africa, and her country, America, and all of the other countries in the world. It was amazing to him that there was so much land, so many places. 

“We go to America?” he asked, touching the map. It did not look so far away. “Tomorrow?”

Jane giggled. “No, it would take us many weeks to get to America. Many, many days and nights of travel.” She paused, looking at him. “Where is your family from?”

Tarzan considered her words, chewing his lip. “My family is in jungle. My mother and brother.”

“But what about your human family?”

Tarzan stared at her, nonplussed. His mother was out in the jungle near the Porters’ house; he knew this because she called to him every night and every morning to see that he was well. It worried him that she was so close to the village; Tarzan knew Men to be hunters of the Mangani, though he knew from watching them before that this particular tribe did not indulge in the practice, and Muviro had promised him that no one would approach her. Akut would be somewhere nearby; it was unusual for any of the Mangani to go off on their own, even the females. 

“Look,” said Jane, misunderstanding his silence. She tapped the photograph. “Father. Mother. Me, the child. See? We are a family.”

“Oh.” Tarzan considered the picture. He took up the sketchbook that Jane had let fall beside them and flipped through it one-handed until he found the half-finished sketch of the Mangani ape. It wasn’t accurate; he doubted that Jane had ever really seen a Mangani. “Mother. See? Mother.”

“No, I meant your human mother,” Jane said. “Don’t you remember her?”

Tarzan shook his head, bewildered and rather upset. He thumped the pencil-Mangani. “Mother.  _ Mother _ .”

Jane sat back, holding up her hands. “All right, calm down. Your mother is a Mangani. All right.”

Tarzan huffed at her and looked away. Human mother. He had never had a human mother, not that he knew of. Kala was the only mother he had ever known, the only person who had ever cared for him. Terrible homesickness crashed through him, and resentment at the humans for not understanding the ways of the jungle. He had always known that he was different from the apes--he had eyes--and now he knew that he was a human, but they were the only family he had ever known. 

“My family are Mangani,” he said crossly. “I no have human family.”

Jane did not look convinced, but she let it go. Tarzan looked back at her family photograph as she began to teach him new words. She had planted a seed of doubt into his mind. Had he had a human family once? And what had become of them, if he had?

 

 

Author's Note: Oh-ho, the plot thickens! Thanks as always for reading, and please, if you've made it this far and are enjoying the story, please comment and let me know. Thanks!


	5. Mother

**Chapter Four**

 

Early, early in the morning Tarzan rose from his bed. The light that filled his room was deep blue, the sun barely over the horizon, but he knew that the jungle folk would be up and awake. Already the night birds were falling silent, the day birds beginning to take their place. His mother would be awake by now, and beginning to look for food. Moving quietly, Tarzan slipped from his room into the kitchen, and through onto the back porch. The latch on the door took him a few moments to figure out, and he pulled his sling off as he worked. He would not go running through the jungle today, nor use the arm if it were possible, but he needed to have both hands available. 

He eased the back door closed behind him and stood on the porch, breathing in the early morning scent of the jungle, the most beautiful part of the day. 

The previous day had been strange, despite the niceness of his bath. It had ended on a strange note, and Tarzan wanted his mother; needed the reassurance that only she could give him. 

It had begun innocently enough. Father had let him exercise a little by limping around the house. Tarzan, trying to ignore the pain each step caused, had explored each room, curious as to its purpose and why humans needed to have so much space, so many things. The kitchen was where they made food: Jane had shown him the bread dough she had rising, and the cupboards full of supplies, and the cook stove. Then he had looked into the room they called the parlor, where there were yet more books, and couches and chairs, and more pictures on the walls. He had examined the pictures and identified which were drawn by Jane. Then there was the room at the end of the corridor, which belonged to Father and contained, like Jane’s room, a bed and a dresser and a small side table. And Tarzan had been confused. 

“Sleep alone?” he had said, when they were sitting around the kitchen table. 

“Well, yes,” Father said. 

“But--not safe?”

Father had given him a quizzical look. “It is perfectly safe, Tarzan.”

No. Tarzan shook his head. “Danger,” he insisted. “It is danger.”

“Why?”

Tarzan had struggled; he did not have the words to tell them what he meant. “I no like alone,” he said at last, and of course, they had misunderstood. 

“It is not proper to sleep together, unless you are married,” Father said, and then he had to explain what  _ proper _ meant, and  _ married _ . This had frustrated Tarzan even more. 

“Not safe!” he snapped. “It is not safe! Alone is danger!”

In his frustration and desperation to make them understand, Tarzan reached for Jane’s sketchbook. He did not know how to hold the pencil the way she did, but he grasped it in his fist and drew a thick line down the center of the page. 

“Look--Tarzan,” he said, thumping the line. “Tarzan. Look--Mother.” He drew another thick line beside the one for himself. Then another, on the opposite side. “Akut. See? Mother, Tarzan, Akut. Safe. We are safe.”

The Porters stared at the lines, both frowning a little. Tarzan huffed at them and drew another life, this time in the corner of the page. “See--Tarzan. Jane is here.” Another line, far away from the Tarzan line. “Father here. See?” Another line, again separated from the others. “Not safe. Danger.  _ Danger _ .”

Jane stared for a moment longer. “Oh, I see! He means there is safety in numbers.”

“Yes!” Tarzan said, thumping the pencil against the paper. “Together safe. Together  _ is _ safe. No alone. Alone is danger.”

“Oh.” Porter contemplated this. He smiled a little. “But look, Tarzan. We are in a house. We can close the doors and windows and then we are safe alone.”

He showed Tarzan how the kitchen door and windows could be bolted from the inside, but Tarzan was not convinced. For all of his life, he had slept safe and warm between Kala and Akut. It seemed ridiculous to risk one’s personal safety, and that of his family, for what humans called  _ proper _ .  

At bedtime he had tried again. The Porters did not go to bed with the sun. The first few days he had been in too much pain to notice, but now he saw their lamps and candles, and felt a stabbing of interest. Jane brought out something that she called a “magic lantern show” and put it over the candle in his room, projecting images onto the wall. Tarzan had watched, fascinated, as she changed image after image: flowers, trees, people, animals, things called “buildings” and “stars” and “ships”. He had been stretched out on his bed, and when the lantern show was over, he had reached for their hands. 

“Sleep,” he said, tugging on them both. Jane lost her balance and sat down hard on the bed. “Safe here. Together is safe.”

Jane had turned red, and Father had sighed. “No, Tarzan. We sleep in our own beds. Alone is also safe.”

And they had left him. True, Jane had bent down and pressed her lips to his cheek before she went out, but they had left him alone and upset all the same. Tarzan had lain in his bed for a long time, listening to them moving about, until finally sleep had overtaken him. 

And now it was morning, and Jane and Father were sound asleep in their beds, and Tarzan was tired. Tired of humans, tired of not being able to speak, tired of being surrounded by customs that he did not understand. And so he limped across the little meadow behind the Porters’ house towards the jungle, where he understood what the rules were, and how to survive. 

_ Mother, where are you? _ he called out under the safety of the trees. 

_ My child, here I am! _ came the response, and Tarzan heard Kala moving through the bushes. He dropped to his haunches, whimpering as his back pulled and ached, and waited for her. 

Moments later his mother emerged from the denser jungle, not quite running as she approached him. Tarzan’s heart leaped as she took him into her arms and held him, careful of his injuries. It was so  _ good  _ to see her, to lean on her. They rubbed their heads together, and Kala ran her hands over Tarzan’s body, looking over his injuries. 

_ You are not well, my child. You still need to rest. Do they hurt you? _

_ No, Mother, they are good. They help me to get well.  _

_ You smell funny.  _ Kala snuffled his hair and began to groom him. 

_ They groomed me like humans do, with hot water. They make me wear clothes. _

_ Huh.  _ Kala plucked at his skirts and shook with laughter.  _ You look funny, my child. Will you come home with me, now? _

Tarzan hesitated. Kala did not push him, running her fingers through his long hair and not finding any crawlers. _ I do not know. I am not yet well. And the humans are...interesting. They teach me human things _ .

_ Is the female your mate? _

Again he hesitated. Jane was his friend, and she was pretty with her long red hair and blue eyes, and she smelled nice, and she taught him things. He desired her, and he wanted to protect her and keep her safe. But the ways of humans were strange, and he did not know if she wanted him. _ I don’t know. Maybe.  _

_ So long as they don’t hurt you.  _ Kala rubbed his back with gentle hands and drew him close again, both arms around him. Tarzan leaned his head back against her shoulder and felt calmer than he had in days. _ I could not bear to lose you, my child _ . 

They sat like that for a long time, and Tarzan drowsed a little. It was nice to sit so, his mother’s arms warm around him, the jungle leaves making a nest around them. Together. If he had had the words to explain, Tarzan would have told Jane and Father that in the jungle love, togetherness, meant the difference between life and death. Kala had always been there for him; he could not remember a time when she had not held and loved and protected him. Without her, and without Akut, he knew that the other Mangani would have killed him, or run him out of the pack. Jane and Father could say what they wanted about a human family, but Kala was his mother. 

“Tarzan?” came Jane’s voice, from the back porch. She called again, closer this time. “Tarzan?”

_ Your mate _ . Kala shook with laughter again.  _ She wants you to come to her _ . 

_ She is not my mate yet! Humans are different than Mangani. Maybe she doesn’t want me _ . Tarzan was embarrassed. Kala laughed again. 

“Tarzan!” Jane called, coming into the jungle eaves. 

_ She wants you. Look, see? _

Tarzan turned his head and looked; Jane stood stock-still ten feet away, gaping at him. She had come looking for Tarzan, not really expecting to find him at all, let alone sitting in the arms of a greying she-ape, his head resting on her shoulder. 

“Jane,” Tarzan said, smiling at her. He rubbed Kala’s arm. “Here is my mother.”

“Yes,” Jane whispered. She did not move, but stood staring with huge eyes. 

_ Go to her and get well _ . Kala unwound her arms and let Tarzan rise, using her shoulder to steady himself.  _ But come back to me soon. Do not forget who you are _ . 

Tarzan bent and rubbed his head against hers again. _ I love you, mother. I will come see you again tomorrow morning. _

_ I love you, my child. _

He limped towards Jane, wishing that his legs would heal so that he could move normally again. Jane had not moved; he took her hand as he came to her. 

“Mother is safe,” he said, and smiled. “No danger.”

“She’s  _ beautiful _ ,” Jane whispered, her eyes shining. “Oh Tarzan, she’s absolutely gorgeous!”

Tarzan smiled again. “Yes. Mother is good.”

Jane seemed to have no words to say, but the way her eyes shone said more to Tarzan than any words could have. He felt a great surge of affection for her, this tiny red-haired girl who loved the jungle’s creatures as much as he did. He put his arm about her shoulders and followed her back into the house.

 

Author's Note: As always, thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think in the comments. I do love to get comments. :-)


	6. A Fight

**Chapter Five**

 

“Oh Father, it was extraordinary! He was just sitting in her arms, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and she was cuddling him like he was a child! I would never have believed such a thing were possible!”

Tarzan sat on the floor beside the kitchen table, eating rice cereal and listening to Jane tell Porter about Kala. Her words were too fast for him to understand, but he guessed from her tone that she was delighted, and he was pleased. He felt more centered now that he had seen his mother. If only Akut had been there, too. 

“He really is one of them, then?” Porter sounded astonished. “Muviro said that he was, that he must be if there was a she-ape hanging around, but I couldn’t bring myself to really believe it. It defies all explanation.”

Tarzan slid his bowl back onto the table above and made a sign for more. Jane spooned the rice cereal into it and slid it back to him, patting his hand as he took it from her. He drank it and leaned on her knees, trying to convey his thanks. Kala’s words rang in his ears. _ Your mate. She wants you _ . He hoped she was right. Jane was lovely. He fiddled with the hem of her nightgown as he drank his breakfast. How had she put the tiny flowers into the fabric? He turned it this way and that, examining it. She didn’t seem to mind. 

“But where did he come from? He must have had human parents, even if he was raised by apes,” Porter continued. 

They looked down at Tarzan, who had put aside his empty bowl and was examining the intricate embroidery on the hem of Jane’s nightgown. He felt their eyes on him and looked up. 

“Tarzan, where did you come from?” Porter asked, his words slow and clear. 

“Jungle,” Tarzan replied, pointing out of the open kitchen door. “I am jungle.”

“You  _ are from _ the jungle,” Jane corrected. “Do you have other humans in the jungle?”

Tarzan considered the other humans he had seen, close to the tall mountains where the Mangani spent the rainy season. “Bad,” he said at last. “Bad men. They have--” he mimed throwing a spear and shooting a bow and arrow, not knowing the correct words. “Make us dead.”

“Bad men killed your human parents?” Porter asked. 

Tarzan shook his head, annoyed. Always these questions about the human parents that he did not have! “No. They kill  _ us _ . Mangani. Humans kill us. I no have human parents.”

Porter was silent a moment, contemplating him. Tarzan went back to studying the hem of Jane’s dress. The embroidery was messier on the inside; he flipped the hem of the skirt up, trying to get a better look. Jane twitched the fabric out of his hands. 

“No,” she said, kind but firm. “Do not look up my skirts.”

“I not,” Tarzan said, startled. “I am look flowers.”

“Look, Tarzan,” Father said, leaning his elbows on his knees. “You had a human family before the Mangani. Yes, you did. Listen. You are a human. Mangani cannot make humans.”

Tarzan shrugged, and hissed as his healing collarbones twinged. “I broken human.”

“No, you are a European human. A white man,” Father said. “And yes, that is rare in Africa. White people made you.”

“Made?” It was the word, not the concept, that confused Tarzan, and he laughed when Porter launched into an explanation of how babies were created. He knew all about that. “I see babies. I see making babies. I understand.”

Jane went scarlet, and Porter passed a hand over his face. Tarzan looked between the two of them and felt a moment of pity. He understood how it felt to not be able to communicate an idea. 

“I have books,” he said, trying to help. “In jungle.”

The Porters looked at each other. “Where?” Father asked. 

“In house.”

“You have a house in the jungle?”

Tarzan shook his head. “No my house. House. In tree.” He held his hand up high, to show that it was off of the ground. “It is broken house. It has books.”

“Where is this house?” Father asked again. 

“In jungle, by the big water.” Tarzan tried to remember the word that Jane had taught him yesterday, when they looked at the atlas. “Ocean. House is by ocean, in jungle. Yes.”

He felt pleased with himself for being able to explain this, and took a banana from the fruit bowl to celebrate. 

“Can you take me there?”

Tarzan thought about the journey, and shook his head. “No.”

They asked him more questions, but he could not answer them, and eventually got tired of trying. He put the banana peel down on the table and walked back to his room, where he curled up in his nest-bed and went back to sleep. 

*

That night, at bedtime, Tarzan did not protest when the Porters went to bed in their separate rooms. He lay in his own nest, disconsolate, listening to them move about, and wished that they would take his warnings about danger and safety seriously. Hadn’t he grown up in the jungle? Hadn’t he fought leopards and cheetahs and even Mangani apes in order to survive? The jungle eves were still close enough to the little house to pose a danger, but Jane and Father seemed oblivious to the threat. Still, it had been a nice day--Father had taught him more verb tenses, and Jane had let him help her in the kitchen, showing him how to knead bread dough, and then letting him have a slice of the finished bread. They had each taught him new words, and Tarzan had committed to memory such phrases as “may I have the bread, please” and “I am washing my hands”. Mwana had come to help him stretch, and had given him more of the purple flower to ease his pain, and later Chief Muviro had come to sit with him and teach him the Koba words for things. They were kind and interesting, these humans, and they helped him to get well. It was the most that he could ask for. 

Still, the urge to protect them, to protect  _ Jane _ , was so strong that Tarzan could not sleep as silence fell in the house. He lay on his soft nest-bed and fretted. Finally, he rolled out of the bed and tottered to his feet. Mwana had assured him that his legs would work again once his back was healed, but Tarzan still worried. In the jungle, falling behind meant certain death. Death was a part of life, but Tarzan refused to be eaten if he could help it. 

Gathering up his blanket, he limped out of the little room and across to Jane’s. Her door was partly open, and a soft light still shone through it. Not asleep, then. He pushed the door open all the way and looked in. 

Jane lay in her bed, reading. She looked up as the door creaked, and smiled at him. 

“Tarzan,” she said in a low voice. “What is it?”  
“I don’t like alone,” Tarzan replied, moving into the room. “I am frightened alone. I come to sleep with you.”

Jane sighed. “Tarzan, we talked about this. You can’t sleep with me, it isn’t proper.”

Tarzan frowned, remembering Father’s speech about propriety and mating. “I am protect you. Not improper. We no make mating.”

Jane blushed and sat up. “What is it you want, then?”

“I make protect,” Tarzan said again. “Together is safe.” He thought about the longer sentences that they had worked on that day. “I want for you to be safe, and me safe, too. So I sleep by you.”

Jane bit her lip and considered him. If she was honest with herself, the idea of sleeping beside Tarzan was more than a little titillating. He was easily the most beautiful man she had ever seen, and his interest in her both flattered and surprised her. But she could not, would not, allow him to sleep in her bed, no matter how desirable she found him. 

“You can’t sleep in my bed,” she said at last. “It isn’t proper and I won’t let you. But you can sleep on the floor.”

Tarzan nodded, his grey eyes serious. “I bring my blanket,” he said. “We are not improper.”

Jane nodded. “Good.”

Tarzan spread his blanket down on the floor and dropped to his haunches. He gasped a little as he bent down and Jane felt a stabbing of concern. 

“Are you in pain?”

“Yes,” Tarzan said, surprised. “But I get well soon.”

He stretched out on the floor and wrapped the blanket around himself. Jane sat looking down at him, studying his face. His brow was furrowed; she knew it was because he hurt. Surely it was more comfortable for him to be in his own bed. But then she remembered how relaxed he had looked in his ape-mother’s arms that morning, and sighed. 

“Here, have a pillow,” she said, passing him the one she usually held when she slept. “Put it under your head. Tarzan?”

“Hmm?” God, his eyes were beautiful.

“Why did you hide from me, when you took my handkerchief?”

Tarzan blinked. “I am…” He paused, searching for the word. “I am not knowing if you are good or bad. You are good with Koba people. I see you. I am not knowing if you are good to me.”

“Oh.” Jane considered this. “You saw me, before?”

Tarzan nodded. “I watch house. I see you and think you are broken like me, so I watch.”

“Broken?” 

“Wrong color human,” Tarzan said, letting his eyes drift shut. He yawned. “Not like others. Different.”

“Oh.” 

How absurdly innocent of him, to assume that because they were a different color, they were less human. But Tarzan was all innocence, at least where human behavior was concerned. Jane watched him a moment longer, then reached to blow out her candle and lay down. After a long moment, he spoke again. 

“Jane, I am no danger,” he said. “I am never hurt you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Jane said, “I know. You saved me from the bull ape.”

“From Kerchak,” he agreed. “He is bad. He not like anyone. But I like.”

“You like what?”

His voice in the darkness sounded surprised. “I like you. You are friend. I am happy to have a friend.”

Something warm washed through Jane at his words, even as she wondered what he meant by ‘friend’. She smiled in the darkness, and reached down to rest her hand on his arm. 

“I’m happy to be your friend, too,” she said, and patted him. “Good night, Tarzan.”

He put his rough hand over hers and patted it. “Good night, Jane.”

 

*

In the morning, he could not move off of the floor. Jane woke up to the sound of low whimpers, and looked over the edge of the bed to see Tarzan lying on the floor, gasping. Muzzily, still half asleep, she sat up. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Jane,” he whispered. “I am hurting. My back…”

Jane rubbed her hands over her face. “Your back hurts?”

Tarzan nodded. His grey eyes were clouded, his mouth set in a thin line. “I no can move.”

“Um.” Jane rolled out of bed and knelt down beside him. It seemed that sleeping on the floor  _ had  _ been a bad idea. She grimaced and hooked her arms under his shoulders. “Here, I’ll help you sit up. One, two, three-”

She tugged him, trying to lift him upright; he rose a little and yelped in pain, and fell back against her onto the floor. Oh, dear. Jane let go of him, apologizing. 

“Stay there,” she said, “I’m going to get Father.”

It was still very early, and Porter was snoring in his bed as Jane bent over and shook him. 

“Father,” she said. “Father, wake up, Tarzan needs help.”

“Eh?” Father said, confused. “What happened?”

“His back hurts,” Jane said, wondering how she was going to explain what the wild man was doing on her floor. 

Porter sat up, yawning. “‘Course it does; he’s badly injured it. What happened?”

Honesty, Jane decided, was best. “He slept on my floor last night and now he can’t move.”

Porter blinked. “Say that again?”

“Tarzan slept on my floor last night and now his back hurts so badly that he cannot move,” Jane said, refusing to blush. 

“And just  _ what  _ was he doing on your floor?”

“Protecting me,” Jane snapped. “Safety in numbers. I left the door open. Come on and help; I’ve tried to lift him up and can’t manage it.”

Porter sighed, obviously irritated, and rolled out of bed to follow her down the hallway. Tarzan lay where Jane had left him, his blanket still rolled around him, his grey eyes immense and tragic. 

“Hurts me,” he said in his low voice. “Father, it hurts.”

“Yes, well, sleeping on the floor when injured will do that to you,” Porter snapped, and Jane glared at him as he crouched down next to the wild man. “Where does it hurt?”

Tarzan swallowed. “All over.”

“Move your arms for me. Good. Legs now. Yes, I thought that would hurt. My dear boy, you  _ are _ foolish. Jane, run and fetch Mwana. I think we’re going to need help.”

Jane hurried away, and Porter turned his eyes to Tarzan. The wild man lay stretched out on the floor, his face tight with pain, and Porter frowned, irritation flashing through him. 

“What were you thinking?” he demanded. “What are you doing in here? I told you that humans sleep alone!”

Tarzan blinked, taken aback. “I am protect Jane.”

Porter shook his head. “Jane does not need your protection! That is my job. It is  _ my _ job to protect Jane; I am her  _ father _ . She is safe in the house!  I  _ told _ you that, several times, and yet here you are.”

“I--”

“I don’t want your excuses,” Porter said, staring Tarzan down. He watched the boy shrink from his anger. “This is my house and you will respect my rules, do you understand? I said we sleep alone and I mean it. Each in their own bed. Do you understand me, Tarzan?”

Tarzan blinked, his grey eyes wide and worried. “I am no improper.”

“Yes,” Porter snapped. “ _ Yes _ , you are improper. By sleeping in Jane’s room, you are improper. You do not sleep by Jane! I know you don’t understand the rules of society, Tarzan, and I’m making allowances for that, but no is no, and I said  _ no _ . And you disobeyed me. I let you into my home and you violated my trust. Do you understand?”

Tarzan shook his head, tears pricking in his eyes. His breathing was tight and shaky, and Porter realized with a stab of remorse that Tarzan was beginning to panic at the torrent of words. He understood Porter’s tone, if nothing else. His mouth opened and closed, but he did not speak. Porter sighed and reached out to touch his hair, but Tarzan shied away from him, gasping. 

“Come now,” Porter said, trying for a gentler tone. “I’m sorry I shouted. Easy, Tarzan. Can you understand me?”

Porter knew from his own experience how fear and stress could rob a man of his words and understanding, especially when a language was new. It probably didn’t help matters that Porter was crouched beside the supine Tarzan, staring him down in a position of power over the injured youth. Tears were slipping down Tarzan’s cheeks into his hair, and the look on his face was one of fear. It struck Porter that Tarzan was very young. He raised a hand again and reached to touch the wild man’s arm, and Tarzan showed his teeth with a faint snarl. Porter sat back and sighed. 

“Easy,” he said again. “Oh Tarzan, what am I going to do with you?”

The most interesting scientific discovery of Porter’s life made no answer, but lay on the floor, gulping quietly and watching him with wary eyes. Porter sighed again. What was he going to do?

“I’m sorry, Tarzan,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have shouted. I am not used to being disobeyed. That means having what I say ignored. There are rules in this house that can’t be broken. What you did was wrong. Can you understand that?”

But Tarzan was far from understanding. He had neither expected nor anticipated Porter’s outrage, for Porter had so far been only kind and good. Fear had stabbed through him when the human started to shout, and his words had vanished from his mind as panic set in. Father’s face had crumpled in on itself, his brows closing together and his mouth turning downwards, his eyes cold and furious. And Tarzan had understood that he had done something terrible by sleeping near Jane. Those words _ -you are improper, you do not protect _ . Tarzan knew what it was to overstep the bounds among the Mangani. He knew what the consequences were, and bitterly regretted them.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, heralding the return of Jane with Mwana, who was carrying her medicines bag. Porter rose to his feet as they came in. 

“He’s injured his back again. I think it may be a slipped disc, this time,” Porter said, and Mwana hummed in concern and bent over Tarzan. “Jane, I’ll speak to you in the kitchen.”

Jane was looking closely at Tarzan’s tearstained face, the huge frightened eyes. “What did you say to him?” she demanded, turning to her father in outrage. 

“Kitchen!” Porter snapped, and strode out the door, leaving Mwana with Tarzan. 

When they were gone, Tarzan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and with it a low cry. Shame and regret and fear filled him, drowning him. He had made Father hate him and now he had to leave. He had behaved badly towards Jane, which had not been his intention. He had not understood the words Father said after “improper”. The thought that perhaps he had misunderstood never crossed Tarzan’s mind. He only understood that Father was angry, and that he was bad, and that he had to go. 

“Tarzan,” Mwana said, her voice gentle. She brushed her fingers across his face. “What has happened to you? What is wrong, my love?”

Tarzan raised his eyes to her. His words had fled and he could not answer. Mwana brushed the tears from his cheeks and stroked his hair, like Mother would. 

“It’s all right, Tarzan, don’t cry,” she said. “Whatever happened, it’s all right.”

“No,” Tarzan whispered. “Bad.”

“Bad? What is bad?”

“Bad,” Tarzan whispered again, and another cry escaped him as his back twinged. “I bad.”

“You are hurting, yes,” Mwana said, continuing to stroke his hair. “I can help you, Tarzan, don’t worry.”

“No,” Tarzan whispered. “I bad.  _ Bad _ , bad. I go.”

“Go? Go where?”

Tarzan couldn’t answer; he felt as though someone had forced a guava down his throat, blocking his ability to make sound. He wanted to wail, but that was the fastest way to bring on predators. He had been bad, and made the Porters hate him. He liked them so much, and now he had ruined everything. He couldn’t breathe. From the kitchen came the sound of raised voices--Jane and Father fighting. Once again fear stabbed through Tarzan. 

“Tarzan,” Mwana said, her voice firmer. “Tarzan, breathe. Relax. You’re as tense as a bow string. Come on, my love, that’s it, take a big deep breath. You cry if you want to; that’s it. Let me help you.”

Mwana slid her hands under Tarzan’s back, feeling along the spine and humming to herself. He watched her, biting back cries as she pressed and prodded and muttered to herself in Koba. 

“Put your arms here,” she said at last, positioning him, “roll onto your hip, that’s good, Tarzan. This is going to hurt, but you will feel better after.”

Mwana put her warm hands on Tarzan’s body and, without waning, twisted and pulled at once. There was a horrible crunching pop; the pain of it ripped through him. Tarzan gave an almighty screech and lay still, moaning. Fire ran up and down his back and stabbed him behind the eyes.

The voices in the kitchen stilled. 

“Easy now,” Mwana soothed. “Breathe, Tarzan, that’s it. Easy, easy.”

Tarzan lay panting, tears pouring down his face. Mwana scooted down to his feet and helped him to move his legs, lifting them upright to an angle, then pressing them knees-first back towards Tarzan’s chest. The pain was terrible; Tarzan whimpered, but Mwana did not stop. Once his knees were pulled to his chest, she rolled him onto his side, then helped him roll over onto his knees. Tarzan lay face down, his arms out before him as though in supplication, panting and crying. He could move. He was not killed. 

“There, almost there,” Mwana said, resting her warm hands on his back. “Someday you will tell me how you got all of these scars. How do you feel?”

“Bad,” Tarzan said. “Hurts me.”

“I bet it does,” Mwana said. She took some ointment from her bag and began to rub it into his back, her hands warm and firm on the aching muscles. In the kitchen, Jane and Porter were still arguing. For a moment they listened to the raised voices, and then Mwana sighed. 

“Is Porter upset because you slept in Jane’s room?” she asked. 

“I am bad,” Tarzan said again, addressing the floor. “I not proper. I bad, bad, bad. I go.”

Mwana’s hands did not falter, but continued to massage his back. “Why?”

Tarzan felt a flash of surprise. “I  _ bad _ ,” he said again, trying to make her understand. “I am sleep by Jane. This bad. I go.”

“You are not going  _ anywhere _ until you are healed,” Mwana replied, her voice firm. She reached up and stroked his hair again. “I will talk with Porter. I cannot see him throwing you out because you slept on Janey’s floor. You do not go.”

For a while she worked at the bunched muscles, rubbing more ointment into Tarzan’s skin as she kneaded. He gasped and whimpered as she worked, tears still making him shudder. He could not see how Mwana could fix anything. 

“Why  _ did _ you sleep in here?” Mwana asked. 

Why? Because he had been frightened, because he did not like sleeping alone, and because he did not understand how the humans could possibly be safe in this funny little house. Because he liked Jane and wanted to be close to her. Because he wanted to be safe. 

“I scared,” he said at last. “I am scared alone.”

“Why?”

Tarzan grasped desperately at his words. How could he explain this? He had tried to make Jane and Father understand, and now they hated him. At least the shouting in the other room had stopped. He shook his head. 

“I go,” he said. “I bad.” 

“No.” Mwana took her hands away and helped him to sit upright. Tarzan reeled a little as his blood rearranged itself and his head swam. Mwana helped him to totter to his feet, her arms warm and strong around him. “You are  _ not _ bad, and the only place you go is to bed. You rest and get well. Come on. Professor, will you come help me?”

Tarzan looked at her sharply and gasped at the pain the motion caused him. Why would they come back, now that he had ruined everything? But the door to the kitchen opened, and Father came into the room, his face more neutral now. Tarzan recoiled a little and looked down at his feet. 

“Here,” said Jane, glancing at her father. “Let me help you, Tarzan.”

She reached out to him, and Tarzan stepped away from her, moving out of her grasp. No. No more Jane. Jane was good, and Tarzan was bad. He gave Father an uneasy look and again dropped his gaze to the floor. He did not see the stricken look that the older man gave him.

“Come, Tarzan, it is all right. You’ve frightened him,” Mwana said, frowning at Porter. “I will speak with you in a moment. Come, Tarzan, let Janey help you. We need to balance you. Come on.”

But Tarzan shifted away from Jane again, and so Mwana was forced to help him stagger back to his room on her own. At the bed, Tarzan sank down, not looking at the Porters, who had followed and now stood in the doorway, or at Mwana, busily piling cushions under his legs so that his knees were folded at a high angle. 

“You need American medicine,” Mwana said to him, “to help with the pain. Here.”

Tarzan drank the bitter water down without protest and lay back. Mwana brushed his hair back again, and squeezed his hand, and pressed her lips to his cheek. Then she led the Porters away, and Tarzan closed his eyes, listening to their voices rise and fall in the corridor. The medicine made him heavy and tired, but it dulled the pain in his back. His legs still felt numb, even more so than they had yesterday. The room was beginning to tilt as the laudanum took effect. Tarzan sighed and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, when he was better, he would go. He wished that he didn’t have to. 

In the corridor, Mwana listened to the tale the Professor and Jane had to tell. She was not impressed. 

“So he told you that he was frightened alone and you didn’t listen,” she said when Porter had finished speaking. 

The professor bristled. “He insisted we weren’t safe, and didn’t listen when I said that we are perfectly safe inside. He--”

“Is an animal,” Mwana interrupted. “He has no concept of what it means to be safe behind closed doors. It seems to me that he tried to make you understand and you wouldn’t listen, and so he did what he felt was right.”

“Mwana, he’s a young man, he can’t just disregard us because he thinks he knows better.” Porter ran his hand through his greying hair, making it stand up on end.

Mwana gave him a pitying look. “Just because he is a young, strong man does not mean that he understands the rules. He is wild. Do you think he would have come here if he hadn’t been injured? And I’ll have you remember just how he got hurt.”

“We don’t know  _ why  _ he approached Jane,” Porter said. “It could have been for any reason--”

“He said it was because I was a broken like him,” Jane interrupted. They looked at her and she blushed. “He saw me with the women when we were out in the jungle, and he thought I was the same kind of creature as him. Not a human, because I didn’t look like others he’s seen.”

Porter blinked. “When did he tell you that?”

“Last night,” Jane snapped. She was still angry with her father. “He also told me that he would never hurt me. And I believe him.  _ You _ might not, but I do.”

Porter sighed. For a moment they all stood in silence, looking at each other. Then Mwana spoke. 

“He thinks he must leave now and return to the jungle. He thinks he has done something entirely worse than he has.”

“I never said that.” Porter sighed. “I know I scared him. I’ll apologize. I approached this as a father, not a scientist.”

Mwana shook her head. “He needs a father, Professor, but he needs someone who is gentle with him. Standing over him and shouting won’t help. He already fears humans. He needs to learn that he can trust us.”

“You’re right.” Porter shifted, thinking. “It won’t help if I go in now; I’d only stress him further. Jane, will you talk to him? Let him know that he can stay.”

Jane nodded and turned away, glad to leave her father feeling remorseful. She still smarted with the lecture she had endured. As if Tarzan would hurt her! Tarzan had no guile; for all his size and strength, he was the gentlest person that Jane had ever met. And he had shied away from her when she went to help him--that stung. She went to the door of his bedroom and stood for a moment, looking in. Tarzan lay with his legs propped up, hands resting on his belly. He was staring at the ceiling. 

The laudanum was taking effect. Tarzan was repeating the word to himself, _ laudanum laudanum laudanum _ , as he floated somewhere up near the top of the room. The fear was draining away with the pain, leaving only dazed sorrow. When Jane said his name, he swam down towards her, treading close, but not too close. Not improper. Jane sat down beside him on the bed, smoothing her nightgown under her. He leaned away so that he would not touch her. 

“Tarzan,” Jane said again, looking a little stung. “How are...is your back better?”

The word started somewhere at the base of his throat and slid upwards. “Yes.”

“Good.” She hesitated, or maybe she was swimming, too. “I’m sorry I got you into trouble. You weren’t trying to do wrong. I’m sorry.”

That word again. Tarzan swallowed and forced the question out. “What...is?”

“What, sorry? Sorry means...It means that a person feels bad about something. That they wish they hadn’t done it. But they did it, and they are telling their friend that they feel bad about it. Do you understand?”

He thought he did. It was hard to take in, with the medicine making the room pulse around him. “I sorry. I sorry, Jane. I go.”

“No,” Jane said, and in her anxiety, she reached for his hand again, and again he moved it away. “Please, Tarzan, you don’t need to leave! I want you to stay. Father wants you to stay, too. He sent me to tell you.”

“Father is…” He lost the train of his thought and had to start again. “Father is mad.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t want you to  _ leave _ . Please, don’t go.”

Tarzan blinked slowly at her. It was so hard to focus on her; he was losing his fight against the medicine. But he understood her, and twitched his fingers toward her. Jane took his hand and held it, and this time he let her. 

“Think about it,” she said. “Sleep now; it’s going to be alright.”

Hours later, Tarzan awoke. He was alone in his room; a blanket was tucked over him and the shutter was open, allowing a warm breeze to tease the curtains. The floating sensation had passed, leaving Tarzan sore and hungry and in desperate need of a pee. He stretched his ears; the house was quiet, but not empty. Jane was humming in the next room, and he couldn’t tell where Father was. He did not call out to them as he would have done yesterday. Even thinking about the morning filled him with shame and fear. Gingerly, Tarzan lifted his legs into the stretches Mwana had taught him. His back pulled and twinged, but the pain was bearable now. Whatever she had done to his spine, it seemed to have worked. He pulled himself upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and reeled a little as his blood rearranged itself. He would pee and then go find his mother. There was plenty to eat in the jungle. 

Leaving was an issue that Tarzan wasn’t certain he wanted to face. He didn’t want to go away--there was so much to learn from the humans; he wanted to know everything about them. But he wanted his mother. He had had a shock that morning, and there were some hurts that only a mother could heal.  

Moving on silent feet, he tottered from the bedroom to the kitchen, where pots bubbled on the stove, then out into the porch. He was halfway to the outhouse when the little door opened and Father stepped out. Tarzan stopped dead. 

“Tarzan!” Father exclaimed. “I didn’t realize you were awake. How are you?”

“I go--” Tarzan pointed to the outhouse. He watched Porter warily, uncertain of his anger. 

But Father nodded and stepped to one side. “Will you stay and talk?” he asked, his voice gentle. “You don’t need to go.”

Tarzan hesitated. Father did not seem angry, only tentative, and there was no threat in the way he held himself. 

“I am stay and talk,” Tarzan said. 

If only for a little while, before he visited his mother. 

Once he had finished with the outhouse, Tarzan dunked his head and hands in the outside wash basin, splashing water onto his face. The water was cool, and helped to clear his head. He wasn’t sure how to dry himself--there were no towels or cloths outside--and so settled for shaking his head and hands as he usually did after swimming. Tarzan drew in a deep breath of the warm jungle air and sighed. 

He had behaved badly--that much he had understood of Father’s lecture. If he had been a little ape, there would have been a smack aimed his way. But Porter had not hit, though Tarzan had been almost certain he would when the man crouched over him. If Porter had been more like Kerchak, Tarzan would be dead now, all exposed with his belly up the way he had been. How did humans discipline their young? Kala smacked him and Akut when they were naughty. He would have preferred for Father to hit him. 

Sighing, Tarzan smoothed his sleep-crumpled skirts and stepped into the kitchen. 

Porter was standing at the stove, making tea in a brown glazed pot while Jane set the table. They had set out food--bread, cheese, fruit--and Jane gave him a small smile. 

“Hello, Tarzan,” she said. “Did you sleep well? How is your back?”

“I am…” he hesitated. He was not good, but the pain in his back had retreated. The shame had not. “I am sorry. Father, I am sorry.”

Porter set the teapot down on the table. “Thank you, Tarzan. Do you understand why I was angry?”

“I am improper. I am bad.”

“No,” Porter said, but his voice was kind. “ _ You _ are not a bad person, Tarzan. What upset me was that I said you were not to do something, and you did it anyway. Do you understand?”

Tarzan hesitated again, thinking it over. “I am too close to Jane’s nest?”

“Well, yes. Humans don’t...humans don’t sleep near to each other unless they are family. Man and wife, or brothers and sisters. You and Jane are not family.”

Tarzan looked over at Jane; she made a resigned face at him. 

“I am not mating with Jane,” he said, looking back at Porter. Not yet. They were not mates yet. 

Jane made a strangled sound, and Porter passed a hand over his face. “I know. I know that. What I’m saying is, it’s not something that would normally be allowed.”

Tarzan looked from one to the other. “I am sorry. I am go now.”

“Oh, no, Tarzan, don’t go!” Jane said, the words bursting out of her. “Please don’t leave yet! You’re not well!”

“No, you don’t need to go,” Father said. “Please, Tarzan, try to understand. Just because you did something wrong doesn’t make you bad. You don’t need to leave. Please.”

Tarzan bit his lip. “I see Mother. I am wanting Mother. But I stay. I stay.”

Their faces broke into smiles, and Tarzan felt a thrill of relief. He smiled back at them, shyly. They were still friends. 

Later, after eating, he limped out into the jungle and called to his mother. Kala came to him quickly, and took him into her arms, and Tarzan spilled out his sorrows to her while she rocked him. There was not much she could do to make him feel better but to pet and stroke him, and Tarzan did not know how to explain the humans’ rules to her when he barely understood them himself. 

_ You are not hurt. _

_ No, just frightened.  _

_ Did she bite you? _

Tarzan grinned, at once embarrassed and sheepish. _ I did not try to mate with her. She is not angry with me. Father was angry, because I was too close to her nest _ . 

Kala rocked with laughter and Tarzan felt himself relaxing. Really, the Porters were not so different from the Mangani. Usually it was a female who chased away the unwanted suitor, but sometimes it was another male. He had to show the Porters that he respected them before they would let him into their pack, even if he didn’t understand them. 

_ Mother? They say I am the same kind as them. They ask where I came from _ . 

Kala’s hand on his head did not stop stroking.  _ You came from the jungle, from the broken bower. You are my child. The others were dead. _

_ What others? _

_ The other strangers. I don’t know. You are my own. _ She hugged him, tight and fierce, but her words echoed in Tarzan’s head long after he had returned to the Porters’ little house.  _ The other strangers _ . What other strangers?

 

 

Author's Note: Whew, a long chapter! This one was hard to write, too. I just hope people are reading this far. I'm not sure I'll continue, otherwise. 


	7. Humanity

**Chapter Six**

 

The question of where Tarzan should sleep was solved, unexpectedly, by Chief Muviro, who came down to the Porters’ house at Mwana’s instigation and listened to their story, while Tarzan rested out in the jungle with Kala. Passions had cooled in the meantime, 

“But I see no problem,” Muviro said, when the morning’s events had been explained to him. “He means no harm.”

Porter ran a hand through his greying hair. “He’s a young man. Isn’t that harm enough?”

Muviro gave him a surprised look. “Do you really think that he would hurt Jane? Janey, did you feel safe with him?”

“Yes,” Jane said, glancing sideways at her father. “He was entirely innocent. He just wanted to be in the same room as me, nothing else. It’s what the Mangani do.”

“But he has to learn what  _ humans _ do,” Porter replied. “He isn’t a puppy, Jane. Just because you like him doesn’t mean you can allow his bad behavior.”

Jane glared, and Muviro began to chuckle. “My friend, you act as though you have power over this man. He is wild, professor, and injured. He is only here because he has to be. If he has learned anything from us, it is because  _ he  _ wants to, not because we will it.”

“He belongs with people,” Porter replied, “not living in the jungle like a wild animal.”

“But he has known no other life,” Muviro said gently. “You are putting American values onto him without meaning to. In his mind, he was acting honorably. Why not let him sleep on Janey’s floor? It is no less than any bodyguard would do to protect one he cared about. Tarzan cares about Jane. He won’t hurt her.”

Porter sighed.  As loath as he was to admit it, he knew that Muviro was right. He knew that Tarzan had not meant any harm. Porter had spent his life learning about other peoples, doing his best to accept them and learn their ways without judgement, and he had failed the wild man that morning.

“I’ll think about it,” he said at last, but he knew that the decision was made. 

That night, at dinner, Porter cleared his throat. Jane and Tarzan, both sitting diffidently at opposite ends of the table, looked up. It had been an awkward day; Tarzan had spent the rest of the afternoon in the jungle and had only reluctantly come inside when called. Porter knew that he had to an extent lost the wild man’s trust. It had to be remedied. 

“Tarzan, Chief Muviro spoke with me today,” he said. “He agrees with Mwana that you should be allowed to sleep on Jane’s floor, if you feel safe there.”

Tarzan stared at him, then slid his eyes towards Jane. “But...I am improper?”

Porter shook his head. “In America, yes, but we are in Africa, and you did not mean any harm. Do you understand?”

Tarzan was silent. 

“He means you didn’t mean to be bad,” Jane said. “He means that here in the village, you sleeping on my floor is fine. It’s good.”

Tarzan looked back and forth between them, utterly nonplussed. First it was one message, then another. He had no idea what they wanted from him. 

“Look,” Porter said, his voice calm and kind. “I changed my mind. It means that I have a new idea now. You can sleep on Jane’s floor if you promise not to do her any harm.”

“I am never hurt Jane,” Tarzan said. “Jane is friend. Jane is good. I am not mating with.”

A wry look passed over Porter’s face. “Good. Don’t even think about it-”

“Father!” Jane howled, her face scarlet.

“-or you will no longer be welcome in this house. Understand?”

Tarzan looked from one to the other and nodded. 

 

*

It took another four weeks for Tarzan to fully heal from the injuries inflicted on him by Kerchak. It was a productive time. Though he did not go into the village--a lifetime’s distrust of humanity could not be easily overcome even if he had human friends now--Tarzan learned and grew in ways he had never considered possible. 

Chief among his accomplishments was language. Tarzan had always been a good mimic, and copying the words and sounds taught to him was easy. He liked the way words sounded, the way they rolled off of his tongue when he spoke. English, spoken in the Porters’ American voices, sat in the middle of the mouth, reminding Tarzan of a lizard sunning itself on a rock, ready to run at a moments’ notice. Koba--which Father told him was a Bantu language, and a dialect of Lingala at that--was much closer to the front of the mouth, and it sounded to Tarzan like song. This Tarzan spoke with Mwana and Chief Muviro when they came to the house. 

Oftentimes they brought their children with them, and this was when Tarzan began to learn more about the village that he had avoided his entire life. Eshe was Mwana’s almost-grown daughter and Jane’s friend, and as Tarzan healed, she began to spend more time visiting. Tarzan liked her. Eshe was always laughing, and when she and Jane really got going, they could sit together and scream with glee. Often Tarzan would find himself laughing at their laughter, even if he did not understand what was funny. But Eshe was kind. She taught Tarzan to string beads, using smooth, small green beads bored from stone. The resulting necklace was very fine, Tarzan thought, and he put it around his neck with no small amount of pride. 

“Is pretty,” he said, displaying it to Jane. “I make pretty necklace.”

Meeting the men was a bit more of an ordeal. Women, Tarzan felt, were not nearly so threatening. Jane and Mwana and Eshe were smaller than he was, and they smiled a great deal, and besides, Tarzan had never seen a female hunting in the jungle. He knew that they did not kill his pack. But men carried bows and spears. Men brought only death to the jungle. And so when Wasimbu came to meet him, Tarzan hid. He could do so more easily now that the pain in his back was less agonizing, even if it was only behind the long curtain that Jane had put up over his window. 

“Come now, Tarzan,” Jane chided when she saw him hiding behind the cotton panel. “Wasimbu is a friend. I’ve known him since I was this tall.”

Wasimbu, looking at the wild man that he had considered an evil spirit for most of his life hiding in alarm, dropped down to a crouch. He brought out the present he had brought, for Mwana’s story about Tarzan’s delight with the carven elephant had spread throughout the village. Wasimbu had brought a carved and painted peafowl, so small that it fit in the palm of his hand. 

“I have brought Tarzan a present,” he said, showing it to Jane. “See, I carved it with my smallest knives.”

Jane knelt down and took the tiny bird from him, admiring the painted green plumage. “It’s beautiful. You’ve really captured it.” She glanced over at Tarzan; he was peering out from behind the curtain. “What sound does a peafowl make--do you remember?”

“I am no mimic, but-” Wasimbu pursed his lips and tried for the bird’s call. He made a passable attempt. Tarzan watched, interested. 

“Let me try,” Jane said, but she could not make a passable call. Tarzan, behind his curtain, began to laugh. “Well, let’s hear you do it, then!” Jane said, giving him a mock glare. 

Tarzan was silent for a moment, hesitating, then a peafowl’s soft cry filled the room. Jane and Wasimbi glanced at each other and grinned. 

“Very good,” Wasimbu said. He took the little wooden bird back from Jane and held it out, resting in the palm of his hand. “Here, for you, Tarzan.”

For a long moment Tarzan hesitated. Then he slipped out from behind the curtain and came to them, moving on silent feet. He dropped to his knees and took the little carving from Wasimbu. 

“Bird,” he said solemnly, looking from one to the other. Then, to Wasimbu, “You are friend?”

“Yes,” Wasimbu said, smiling. “My name is Wasimbu.”

“Wasimbu,” Tarzan echoed. “Mbote, Wasimbu.”

Wasimbu’s grin broadened. “Mbote, Tarzan.”

Was it really so simple, Tarzan wondered, as walking up to a human person and saying hello? All his life he had hated and feared humans, and yet the spontaneous action of saving Jane from death at Kerchak’s hands had been repaid with nothing but kindness and mercy. Their rules did not make sense to him, but Tarzan liked these people. He liked Father, who had not shouted at him once in all of the times since their first fight that he had slept on Jane’s floor. (Not that he had done that at once. It had taken him a week or so to build up the courage to try the experiment again.) He liked Chief Muviro, who taught him words and told him stories. He liked Mwana, who looked after him and who had taught him how to wash. And he liked Jane. No, that wasn’t quite the right word. What he felt for Jane went beyond mere liking. She made him feel warm inside. Whenever he saw her, whatever she was doing, Tarzan’s heart beat faster. Jane was always busy, always doing something. He liked to sit beside her while she worked on her book, watching the animals come alive with her pencils and watercolors. Jane had a good eye for the detail of jungle animals, but there were so many that she did not have in her book that he wished he could show her. There were baboons and monkeys and mandrill, leopards and gorillas and deer. They were well done, but some he doubted that she had really seen most of the animals up close. 

“I take you,” he said once, tracing his fingers over the image of a parrot. “I take you to see jungle when I am well. You are safe with me.”

Jane smiled, her eyes lighting up. “I’d like that.”

But in the meantime, Tarzan healed, and watched, and learned. He learned that Porter was not an early riser by choice, and that he was often cranky before he had eaten. He learned that Jane had trouble falling asleep and so often stayed up late, reading. Muviro and Wasimbu taught him to spin wool into thread, which helped them when they came to weave cloth. One day, shy and hesitant, Tarzan accompanied the men out of the Porters’ little house and up to the village hall, which sat on a hill above the Koba’s round houses. Jane came with him, which allayed most of Tarzan’s fears, but it was a strange thing, to be stared at by so many people. Would they have tried to kill him, if the circumstances had been different? Tarzan wondered. But he was glad to see the hall, with its central firepit and the men’s huge looms to one side. Ceremonial shields and masks decorated the beams; they intrigued and frightened Tarzan by turns. Wasimbu took the thread that Tarzan had spun and showed him how it would be added to the loom and become soft cotton cloth. 

“We will teach you, yes?” Wasimbu said, grinning.

“Yes,” said Tarzan, running his hands over the finely made machine. 

They were so clever, these humans, with their weaving and singing and cooking, their books and art and music. And they were affectionate, too, though not in the ways the Mangani were. Kala had always petted and stroked Tarzan and Akut, and the playmates he had had growing up wrestled with him and chased him through the trees. The Porters did not wrestle or chase, though the Koba men did when practicing for battle. Instead, they touched him lightly, again and again, catching his arms as they went by, patting his back and shoulders. Jane took his hands very often, squeezing them and smiling. She was so pretty when she smiled; it made Tarzan’s heart rise every time. 

Six weeks, and Tarzan was learning what it was to be human. He was a Man, Father explained to him one day, and Jane was a Woman, and there were Rules about how to interact with each other. He must not touch a Woman’s breasts or the place between her legs unless they were Married, which meant that the village recognized them as mates. He must not force himself upon a woman in any way. Tarzan found this funny; he knew not to approach a female when she was not receptive to male advances. Mangani females were not hesitant to bite a persistent suitor, and several of Tarzan’s packmates had scars from irritated would-be conquests. Besides, Jane had smacked him that first day, when he was learning her scent. He knew not to persist in an action that would get him hit. That Father felt the need to tell him the difference between male and female amused Tarzan, but he listened. He always listened. 

Because when it came down to it, Tarzan was desperate to learn. His whole life he had been different from the people he called his family. Different from mother, different from Akut, different from his friends in the pack. Kerchak had often tried to kill him, perceiving him as a threat. Man had always been a predator at the edges of the jungle, there and gone in an instant, leaving only death and sorrow behind them. But now there was Jane, who taught him to speak and to read in English, and Father, who taught him puzzle games and geography and something he called math, and Muviro, who taught him to speak Lingala, and Kwete and Wasimbu and Kolo, who showed him how to throw a spear and carry water to and from the well and to sing Koba songs, and Jane, and Jane, and  _ Jane _ …

Tarzan respected and cared for the others, but it was Jane who held his heart. Every movement she made, every action-even something as simple as putting on the kettle or sitting beside him to read made him feel funny. She was his friend, someone who made him feel safe and comfortable, but she was also beautiful, and fierce, and Tarzan wanted to mate with her, to care for her and love her. His desire for her frightened Tarzan a little. The Mangani mated for life. To have Jane, he would have to leave the jungle and his family there forever, for she would never survive in the wild. Besides, he did not know how to care for her as a man cared for a woman. As soon as he was able to leave the house, he began to explore the village, and saw that Koba men farmed and hunted and wove colorful cloth that was cut and sewn by the women. The men in the village provided for their families far beyond what the Mangani did. Their skills were far beyond his own. Tarzan could climb in trees, and fight, and swim. That was about it. 

“Patience, son,” Father said, whenever Tarzan, stumbling over a new word or turn of phrase, became frustrated. “The language will come with practice. Try again.”

“I am stupid,” Tarzan grumbled one morning, shoving the picture book he was trying to decipher away from himself. “Stupid, stupid wild man.”

“You are _not_ stupid,” snapped Father. “You just haven’t had the chance to learn from childhood. People with far more advantages than you have trouble learning a new language, and you are learning two at once. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Tarzan wondered, disconsolate, whether he would ever be able to speak as quickly as Jane or Father or Chief Muviro, who did not have to construct a sentence in their head before saying it out loud. He asked Jane later in the day, sitting at her feet while she worked on her book at the table above him. 

“Of course,” Jane replied. “When I was learning Lingala it took me months to be able to speak with any clearness. You’re doing far better than I did in only a few weeks. It will come, never fear.”

And she reached out and stroked his hair, as she had begun to do as they grew used to each other. Tarzan leaned into her hand, relishing the stroke. He liked being touched. Mangani touched each other often, but humans did not, unless they were a family or mates. Jane and Father touched Tarzan, patting his arms and back, stroking his hair. They were friendly with each other, too. Often Tarzan observed one or the other of them put their arms around each other and press their lips to each other’s face. 

“What is?” he asked one evening, when Jane had just done this to Father’s face, as she made her way to bed. 

“What, a kiss?” Father sounded amused. Jane paused in the parlour doorway, curious to hear what he had to say. “It’s a sign of affection. It means you care about a person, that you love them and wish to show them that love. So when Jane gives me a kiss, it’s because she loves her old father. And I give Janey kisses because she’s my little girl.”

“Not so little,” Jane said wryly.

“It means liking?” Tarzan said. 

Porter nodded. “Yes, exactly, but more than that. Kisses are for people you feel very close to; people you care about a lot, who are important to you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Tarzan said, very serious, and solemnly came to kiss Porter’s cheek. “Like so?”

Jane burst out laughing, delighted, and Porter smiled. “Yes, like so. Only men don’t usually kiss each other unless they are family.”

“You are Father,” Tarzan pointed out, a little embarrassed. 

“Yes, but I’m Jane’s father,” Porter said. “We don’t know who your father was.”

Tarzan shrugged; he had never felt the need for a father. “I name you father.”

Porter’s smile broadened into a grin. “You do, yes.”

“I’ll share him with you,” Jane said, grinning, and came to kiss Tarzan’s cheek, stretching up on her toes to reach him. “There. We both like you very much, Tarzan.”

Tarzan looked up at her, delighted. “I can kiss you?”

“On the cheek,” Porter said, glancing sideways at him. 

Tarzan gave him a curious look; how else would he kiss Jane? No matter. He bent his head and pressed his lips to Jane’s smooth face. She smelled clean and fresh so close to him, the way she had the day they met, before Kerchak had attacked them. Her skin was warm. This was nice. Tarzan wanted to linger, but Father was making a coughing sound and so he drew away. Jane’s face was pink. 

“Well, anyway,” Father said, sounding amused and rueful. “That’s kissing. Good night, Jane.”

Altogether, Tarzan thought, it was good to be among the humans. He liked the Koba tribe, he liked the Porters, he liked being with Jane. He liked working with her on her book. Indeed, there was only one thing Tarzan needed to do before he returned to the jungle to fetch his treasures from the broken treehouse. He wanted Jane to meet his Kala. 

 

Author's Note: A new chapter! I wasn't sure I'd ever post this one. If you're reading this story and enjoying it, please let me know, for I am so close to giving up on it. 


	8. Making Adventure

**Chapter Seven**

 

“Jane. Jane.”

The voice was low and urgent, and a hand on her shoulder shook her awake. Jane grumbled and opened her eyes. Early morning sunlight filled her little room and Tarzan was bending over her, poised to continue shaking.

“Whaaat?” Jane muttered, shoving him away. “It’s the middle of the night.”

Tarzan laughed. “It is morning and the sun shows his face. Come. Wake up.”

Jane groaned and pulled her pillow over her head, telling him just what she thought of this rude awakening. Tarzan paid her no mind, but moved around her little room; Jane listened to him pulling open her wardrobe and rummaging in her drawers. Curiosity got the better of her sleepiness and she put the pillow under her head again. Her wild man was coming to her with an armful of clothing.

“Come,” he said, dumping it onto her prone form. “We make adventure. Come, Jane.”

Jane sat up and picked over the clothes he had brought her. Skirt, petticoat, blouse, chemise, underwear. Well, he’d gotten all the pieces right.

“Where are we going?”

Tarzan grinned. “Get up. I tell you in breakfast. Get up or I sing like elephant.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Tarzan’s elephant impression had sent her screaming out of bed on more than one occasion. Jane flipped her covers back and rolled out of bed, grumbling. “I’m up, I’m up. Confounded wild man. Get out of here while I dress!”

Tarzan grinned again, satisfied, and sloped out of the room, closing the door behind him. Jane went behind her little screen to wash and dress, pulling on the clothing that he had selected for her: a white linen blouse and a dark red cotton skirt that she had made from cotton bargained for in the village. Tarzan was interested in clothing, though so far he had declined to wear anything beyond the skirts Mwana had given him. He had spent an afternoon once going through first Porter’s wardrobe, then Jane’s, learning the names for each piece he found inside. Porter had laid out each article and explained its use, Tarzan watching in fascination. But he had declined their offer to make him a suit of his own. Jane grinned, remembering the amusement on his face when he had.

Oh, she _did_ like Tarzan. As he healed and his diffidence around them wore off, he had become an integral member of the household, and  Jane didn’t know what she would do if he left. It was not just that he was easily the most beautiful man she had ever seen--a woman would have had to be made of stone not to notice Tarzan’s grace and physical strength, not to be taken in by his beautiful grey eyes. There had been a number of small accidents around the house when Tarzan first began exploring, when he had pulled too hard on a door and yanked it off of its hinges, or opened a drawer with too much force and sent the contents flying. But despite that, Tarzan was surprisingly gentle for a man of his size and strength. He was gentle, and kind, and curious, and Jane cared about him more than she had ever cared for anything before.

Whenever she kissed him--always on the cheek--he smiled and smiled, as though she had given him some immeasurable gift. The thought of reaching up to kiss his mouth filled Jane with warmth. It was early days yet; he was still more animal than man. And yet…

 _Enough_ , Jane told herself, splashing cold water on her face. That kind of thought would only lead to frustration.

“All right, where are we going?” Jane asked five minutes later, appearing in the kitchen.

Tarzan looked up from the breakfast he was cobbling together. He had carved thick slices of bread off of the loaf with the kitchen knife and smeared them thickly with butter and jam. He had peeled two bananas and poured clean water into to cups. He did not know how to turn on the stove to cook hot food or make tea, and so had been forced to improvise.

“We got to jungle,” he said, putting his clumsy yet endearing offerings before Jane. “We see Mother, so you make for book.”

Jane stared at him. “We will go see your mother? Really?”

“Yes!” Tarzan pulled out the chair opposite and crouched on it, looking absurdly pleased. “She is good; she will like you because you are Jane.”

Jane frowned. “Because I am me?”

“Because you are Jane,” Tarzan said, but he frowned, thinking. “Because you are mine.”

“Am I, now?”

Tarzan nodded, his face serious. “I bring you to Mother, because you are friend. Mine friend. Because I like, Mother likes. Yes?”

Jane thought this over, taking a bite from her jammy bread. “Your mother will like me because you like me?”

Tarzan gave a little hop; the chair creaked alarmingly under him. “Yes! Mine friend.”

“ _My_ friend,” Jane corrected. “I don’t belong to you.”

“My friend,” Tarzan repeated. He grinned a little, sheepish. “Breakfast. Eat.”

Porter was up and about by the time they were cleaning up; he listened to their plan with a neutral face.

“Is it safe?” he asked Tarzan.

Tarzan thought about it. “Mother is safe,” he said at last. “Jane is safe with me and mother. We do not go to the Mangani or deep jungle. We only go to Mother.”

Porter nodded. “All right, then. Try not to be too long.”

Tarzan mirrored his nod, very serious. He was still learning to understand time. “Yes, Father.”

And so they set out. Jane carried her small backpack, with her sketchbook and pencils and a picnic lunch inside. Around her neck in its box she carried one of her most prized possessions: a portable camera, which her Aunt Enid had sent from America one birthday. Tarzan held her hand as he led her into the jungle.

They walked a couple of hundred yards into the jungle, coming to stop in a small clearing. Light filtered between the leaves, and the raucous call of the jungle birds filled the air around them. Tarzan  listened for a moment, then gave voice to a low ululating cry. Jane looked at him in surprise; it was the call that she had heard emanating from the jungle throughout her childhood, though less challenging. Well, that was one mystery solved. It pleased her to know that he had been the one to make it. An answering cry came from deeper in the jungle, and Tarzan pulled Jane down to crouch beside him in the dirt.

“Mother comes,” he said, smiling.

Moments later the great she-ape that Jane had seen the one time she had come looking for him walked into the clearing. Jane stared. She felt that she should be frightened, knowing what she did now about the closeness of the Mangani, but the simple fact of it was that Jane was not at all worried. How could she be, when she was with Tarzan?

The she-ape stopped and made a low hooting noise, looking at Jane. Tarzan bounded towards her on all fours; the she-ape caught him in her arms, hooting with delight. Jane stayed crouched where she was, watching, delighted at the way they interacted. For a while the two made noises at each other, and Jane felt herself relaxing. She had never seen such a beautiful creature. Then Tarzan pulled away from his mother and came back to Jane, still moving like an ape.

“Come, Jane,” he said, touching her arm. “Mother is good. Come.”

He reached up and took her hand, and Jane let herself be pulled down to the ground beside him. On hands and knees she looked towards “Mother”, uncertain as to what would happen next. The last Mangani she had encountered had nearly killed them both.

“Come,” Tarzan said, nudging her forward.

He made a low sound towards the she-ape, who had gotten to her feet. Jane kept herself low and close to Tarzan, heart pounding. To see an ape from a distance-that was one thing. She was not Tarzan, who had been raised by this creature. But Tarzan seemed unconcerned of any danger; indeed, he seemed proud to have her with him, continually touching her back and nudging her side as he hooted at his mother. It was, Jane thought with a grin, rather like being shown off by a tom cat.

They stopped just short of the she-ape, and Tarzan sat back on his haunches. Jane stayed kneeling, uncertain. The ape moved about Jane, sniffing her just as Tarzan had that first day. Then gentle fingers curled into Jane’s hair, and the ape settled down and began to groom Jane. Tarzan began to rock with laughter.

“Orange,” he said, and tugged Jane into a sitting position. “You are orange hair.”

“Is it safe?” Jane asked, carefully extracting herself from the she-ape’s hands.

“Mother is safe,” Tarzan replied, smiling all over his face. “You are safe with mother. Kala. She is Kala.”

“Kala?”

Tarzan nodded and tapped his chest. “I am Tarzan. You are Jane. She is Kala.”

“Oh, I see.”

Tarzan grinned and settled down onto the leaves, curling into himself. Kala gave him a stroke and went back to studying Jane. She plucked at Jane’s dress and hair and bag, sniffing and making noises. Jane took the bag off and opened it. Mother and child looked at it with interest.

“Look,” Jane said, taking out her sketchbook. “Paper. Pencils. I want to draw a picture of Kala, Tarzan-is that all right? Is it good?”

“Yes, it is good.” He grinned, more relaxed than Jane had ever seen him as he leaned on his mother’s arm.

“What about this?” Jane took her camera out of its box and showed it to them. “It’s a camera. It makes pictures, like the one at home of my parents and me. It is safe.”

Tarzan cocked his head; Jane held the boxy square up to her eyes and focused the lenses on him. He looked at her with curiosity and delight. _Click_. She lowered it and smiled.

“See? No danger.”

Kala rocked with silent laughter. She reached for the camera, but Jane held it back and shook her head. The sketchbook was one thing--she could easily replace it--but the camera was from America, and expensive, and if it broke, well, that was the end of that. Kala, however, did not seem offended. She took Jane’s bag and emptied it out, looking it over curiously. She made a noise at Tarzan and he grinned.

“You are good,” he said to Jane. “You are friend now.”

After that it was easy. Jane settled in the bushes a few feet away from Tarzan and Kala, where she could draw and photograph them without being obtrusive. She took picture after picture, focusing on Kala alone and with Tarzan. What an enormous benefit this would be to her book! She had lost track of it over the past few weeks, what with the discovery of Tarzan and the care and teaching of him, but now Jane felt a thrill as she worked to observe the wild man and his Mangani mother. For several hours they sat in companionable quiet, Jane sketching and taking pictures: Kala alone. Kala grooming Tarzan. Tarzan stretched out on the verge beside Kala. Picture after picture, each priceless and irreplaceable. And when she wasn’t sketching or taking pictures, Jane wrote down her observations.

“Come,” Tarzan said after a while, and pulled Jane over to Kala again. The ape put gentle hands on Jane’s head and began to parse through her hair, looking for insects and crawlers. She didn’t find any, but Jane let her work, amused and thrilled to be treated so tenderly by such a fearsome creature. Tarzan crouched nearby, watching with a smile.

“What does she think of me?” Jane asked, looking at him.

“She is thinking you are funny. You smell different, but good.” Tarzan hesitated. “She thinks you are my mate.”

Jane blinked, warmth flooding her. “Is that what you think?”

Tarzan shrugged. “I am not knowing. You are friend to me and I like you.” He hesitated. “I no have the words.”

“Try,” Jane said, keeping her voice kind. Her heart pounded.

Tarzan thought for a long moment, rubbing his fingers in the jungle dirt. “You are good. You smell nice and you laugh and you teach me to talk and read. I like this. I like to be with you.” And for the first time in his life, he reddened. “I am wanting to be mates with you, but this is improper. I am Mangani, not man.”

Jane swallowed. “You _are_ a man, Tarzan. You’re just learning to be human. I…”

How could she tell him that she wanted him? _Did_ she want him? All her life she had wondered what her husband would be like; somehow she had always assumed he would be a sophisticated gentleman. And here was Tarzan of the Mangani, who had never worn clothes in his life until a few weeks ago, who was still learning language, who had never seen a white man before he met the Porters. Did she want this wild man? Physically, yes, she did, but did Jane want to be with him for a the rest of her life? Was that even feasible?

“I don’t know,” she said at last, lamely. “I like you very much, Tarzan, but I don’t know if it’s possible for us to be mates. I mean, you would have to leave the jungle and live among humans forever. You would have to learn to be a man, not an ape. Do you understand?”

Tarzan nodded, his eyes serious. “Mangani mate for life. Humans too?”

“Ideally, yes. It means in a perfect world. Oh lord, I’m not explaining this right.” Jane brushed her hands over her face. “Yes, humans mate for life when they love each other. But they are both fully human. You are man and Mangani. To have a human mate, you have to be one or the other. You can’t be both.”

“I know,” Tarzan said, and this surprised her. “I no can have Mangani mate, because I am small and ugly. I can have human mate, but I must learn to be a human first. I am trying.”

“You’re doing very well,” Jane said, touching his hand. “You really are. Let’s wait and see how it goes, all right? Maybe you will decide you don’t like me.”

Tarzan scoffed at that. “No I won’t. I will always like you. But Jane?”

“Yes?”

“If you are no wanting me as mate, you say.” His face was very serious. “Mangani females, they bite and hit when they don’t want mate. Then male must go away from them. We are not mating. But if you don’t want me ever, you tell. I am not angry. Do you understand?”

 _Do you understand?_ Jane felt a smile spreading across her face, absurdly touched that he was trying to hard to make himself clear. “I understand. Thank you, Tarzan.”

“And we are still friends?”

“Yes, we are still friends.”

Jane reached out and took his hand. They could be friends, for now. They had time. For a while they sat together in silence, then a thought occurred to Jane.

“Did you say you are ugly? My dear, you are the least ugly man I have ever seen.”

Tarzan gave her a surprised look. “I am no looking like Koba men. Koba men are very beautiful.”

“Yes, but you’re beautiful, too!” Jane swatted his arm. “Just because you look different doesn’t mean you aren’t nice to look at. I don’t look like the girls in the village and I think I am beautiful, just in a different way.”

Tarzan grinned. “I am thinking so, too.”

“Well, then, you see? For heaven’s sake.”

They sat there and laughed together, and Jane knew, deep in her heart of hearts, that some sort of decision had already been made.

 

 

Author's Note: Well, that's a declaration on Tarzan's part. I hope you liked this chapter! Please let me know what you think in the comments. 


	9. To The Treehouse

**Chapter Eight**

 

They visited Kala three more times over the following week, and Jane was diligent in filling page after page of her notebook with her observations. It was, she mused one night while writing out a fair copy, like being a real zoologist. Heretofore she had only been able to make observations of smaller creatures, birds and the like, that were easy to find near the village and which were less wary of humans. Watching Kala uninterrupted in the jungle was a gift, and what was more, it was a highly original and valuable piece of work that she was doing. Every day she showed her father the work she had accomplished, the pictures she had drawn, the observations she had made. If she could continue like this, and go into the jungle with Tarzan more often, her book would become less of a dream and more of a reality. None of it would have been possible without Tarzan. The wild man’s interest in her project was genuine; the delight he showed at the idea of her creating an actual physical book was flattering.

Of course, Tarzan had no real conception of what the world was like outside of the village. Jane had to remind herself of that constantly. But he was besotted with learning, and spent hours every day poring over the books the Porters had brought with them from America, or practicing writing with chalk and slate, or spinning thread for the men to weave into fabric. Slowly, slowly, he was becoming more of a man. But he was also getting better, well enough to leave them and return to the jungle, and Jane found herself dreading his decision as the days went by.

But so far Tarzan had said nothing about leaving, and so Jane decided to enjoy her time with him as much as possible. She did not often let herself think about the conversation they had had that first day with Kala, when he told her that he wanted to be her mate. It was too complicated a question; the odds of their possible future together seemed insurmountable. And so Jane lived in the present moment and enjoyed herself.

Kala was not the only ape in the near jungle. Akut, too, was nearby, though he did not come as close to the jungle’s edge as his mother did, and he never showed himself to Jane. She was not to know this, but Tarzan was relieved by his brother’s reticence. Jane was very brave and fierce, Tarzan knew, but he did not think that she would be happy to meet another bull ape close up. And Akut, for all the kindness and love with which he treated Tarzan, was infinitely wilder than Kala and might not be gentle with the redheaded girl whom Tarzan loved. And so when he went into the deeper jungle to visit with his brother, Tarzan did not offer to take Jane with him.

Akut was glad to see Tarzan, smacking his ribs as he had always done. _When are you coming home?_

_When I am better._

Akut looked Tarzan up and down and snorted. _You are better now._

Tarzan smacked his arm. _My back still hurts._

 _You are staying because of the female._ Akut laughed and Tarzan found himself grinning sheepishly. But then Akut sobered. _But be careful. Kerchak thinks he has driven you away forever. You will need to keep to the edges of the family when you return._

_I know._

Tarzan felt cold just thinking of Kerchak. He had always done his best to avoid the Mangani king, who had hated him for as long as Tarzan could remember. It was only because of Kala and Akut that he had survived for this long. Some of Tarzan’s earliest memories were of being pursued by Kerchak, knowing that capture meant death. He could still taste the fear that had filled him whenever Kerchak came after him. Saving Jane had been an act of defiance so spontaneous that Tarzan sometimes wondered where such courage had come from. He was not certain that if it had been anyone else (except Kala) he would have dared to defy the king in such a way.

There had been attempts made, over the years, by other bulls to supplant Kerchak’s leadership, but so far none had been strong enough to defeat the king. Certainly not Tarzan. He eyed Akut. His brother was enormous.

 _I will stay close by you_.

Akut smacked him again and rocked with laughter. _We will see_.

Yes, Tarzan knew it: the time was at hand that he must decide whether or not to return home with his family or to stay with the Porters and the village. It was not a choice that he wanted to make. Couldn’t he have both? It was clear to him that Jane and Father wanted him to stay with them. But it was equally clear that Kala and Akut expected him to return to them.

One night, as he lay on his straw mattress on Jane’s floor listening to Jane’s quiet breathing and Father’s rumbling down the hall, an idea began to form in Tarzan’s mind. It was still summer. The pack roamed the jungle between the river and the coast, and would until the rains came. Father still asked questions about Tarzan’s youth and his life in the jungle, and about the treehouse on the coast with the books that Tarzan had mentioned.

“Can you take me there?” he had asked after dinner that evening.

And Tarzan, thinking about it, had shaken his head. “No. It is too danger for you.”

But he could go. It would be easy enough to travel to the coast and back, and Kala and Akut could come with him. That way they would not feel abandoned, and Tarzan would be able to finally answer Father’s questions.

The journey would not be hard, but it would take him away from Jane for a long time. Tarzan shifted again on his mattress and sighed. Jane was right when she said that if he wanted her for a mate, he would have to stay with the humans and become one of them. Tarzan could not imagine spending the rest of his life without her. In the natural way, when a male took a female to mate, they spent their days both privately and as a pack, and eventually a baby would come. Then the bull must protect his family. Occasionally bulls from Tarzan’s pack would take a mate from another pack, if they could not find a local female who liked them, and then the new female came back with him. But Tarzan knew that he could not take Jane with him into the jungle, not to live. Life among humans was far more complicated than life among the Mangani. Tarzan sighed again. He knew that when the rains came and his family left for the mountains, he would go with them. He wished that the rains would never come.

Still. He could bring Father his treasures from the broken treehouse. Maybe then he would stop pestering Tarzan with questions that he could not answer.

“I go to treehouse,” Tarzan said at breakfast the next morning.

The Porters looked at him, startled, and then glanced at each other.

“When?” Father asked.

“Today,” Tarzan answered, looking at Jane. “But I will come back.”

“Today!” Jane exclaimed. “What prompted this?”  
“I have books there. I bring back for you and Father.” Jane still looked upset; Tarzan reached out and rubbed her arm. “I am not gone long. Father has many questions. Maybe books will help, yes?”

“Yes,” Father said, “that may well be the case. How long will it take you?”

Tarzan thought about it. Measuring time was still strange to him. “Seven sleeps? I don’t know. I go and come back.”

“And you’re sure I can’t come with you?”

“No. It is not safe for you.”

Jane frowned. “But it is for you.”

“Yes, it is my home.” Tarzan took her hand and squeezed it. “I am staying away from Kerchak. I am not afraid of the others.”

Jane sighed and squeezed his hand. “Please be careful.”

“I will.”

Tarzan did not leave immediately, but helped Jane to clean up from breakfast. He brought water from the well in the village so that she would not have to, and made his bed, folding his blankets and rolling the mattress up and stuffing the lot under Jane’s bed. The carved wooden animals that their friends in the village had given him Tarzan set on her bookshelf for safe-keeping. He could see that Jane was upset that he was going, but she did not say anything to discourage him, and Tarzan was obscurely grateful for that. If Jane had protested, he knew that he would stay with her, and his curiosity to know what treasures the treehouse books contained was beginning to gnaw at him.

“Would you like me to pack you some supplies?” Jane asked instead.

Tarzan hesitated. He didn’t really need anything, but Jane was trying to help. “What supplies?”

Jane shrugged; she knew as well as he did that he didn’t actually need her help. “A water bottle? Maybe a blanket?”

Now there was an idea. Tarzan liked blankets; they were lovely and warm at night when the sun hid its face, and he imagined that carrying water would be useful.

“Yes, I take,” he said, and Jane smiled.  

In the end he took a small canvas bag that he could sling across his back. Inside was a tin water bottle, a large square of cotton that he could wrap around himself, and Father’s bowie knife. This last item had surprised Tarzan--Father had not allowed him to touch the knife before, though he had shown Tarzan how to use it.

“Better safe than sorry,” Father said gruffly, and Tarzan understood that the older man wanted to keep him from danger. Touched, he put his arms around Father and hugged him.

“Thanks you, Father. I keep safe.”

Jane wrapped a packet of food (soft bread rolls, a couple of fresh banana fritters) into a piece of cloth and put it at the top of Tarzan’s little pack.

“You will be careful, won’t you?” she asked, helping him adjust it across his back.

“Yes,” Tarzan said. He put his hand on Jane’s face, stroking his thumb over her soft cheek. He smiled. “I am coming back. I am no in danger.”

Jane sighed. “I know. I just worry.”

They stood quietly for a few moments, looking at each other. Jane bit her lip. She had told him last week that she wasn’t sure if she wanted him. Now that he was leaving, she wanted to put her arms about him and beg him not to go. But she could not keep him here; he was still more animal than man, and she would not lock him in a cage, even if it was a nice one. And she was curious about the items he planned to bring back. Instead, she stepped closer and put her arms around Tarzan, hugging him close. Tarzan’s strong arms closed around her and they stood like that for a long moment. Then he kissed her cheek and stepped back.

“No be-don’t be sad. Please don’t,” he said, and Jane gave him a small smile.

“I’ll miss you, that’s all.” She kissed him at the corner of his mouth. “Go on, then. Hurry back.”

It was a very different Tarzan who bid the Porters and the Koba villagers goodbye that afternoon than the one who had been carried out of the jungle six weeks before. He paused at the edge of the jungle, looking back at Jane and Father and Mwana and Chief Muviro, at Wasimbu and Kwete and Eshe and the others who had come to see him off. He smiled at them, and raised his hand in farewell. Then he turned and walked into the jungle.

*

A mile into the jungle, Tarzan stopped and removed his skirts. There was no need for them here and they would only get in the way. He folded them carefully and stuffed them into his bag. Then he straightened and bawled out his call for Mother and Akut and waited for them to come to him.

Oh, it was good to be back in the jungle! Tarzan stood among the flowering plants and breathed in deeply of the jungle dirt and the hot, humid air. Soon he would be running through the trees, leaping from branch to branch and soaring through the air on the vines. Thanks to Jane and Mwana’s care, his injuries had healed and he was as strong as ever.

Akut reached him first, appearing around the bole of a tree. He whuffled at Tarzan in delight. _You are back?_

_Yes. I go to the big water. Will you come?_

_Yes._ Akut smacked Tarzan’s ribs. _I have missed you, brother._

Kala appeared a few minutes later and laughed to see her sons wrestling in the dirt. She, too, agreed to come to the coast, as long as they could locate the rest of the pack first. They had been gone a long time. And so it was a cheerful family that set out, moving first through the bushes at ground level, then through the trees when the way became too tangled for easy movement.

It took Tarzan nine days to reach the treehouse on the coast, travelling in this way. Finding the pack was easy, but while Kala and Akut were greeted by their family with genuine delight, Tarzan was given a wide berth. Kerchak, seeing him crouched at the edge of the group, reacted to Tarzan’s return with frightening fury, chasing him up into the highest branches and roaring for him to come down so that he could finish him. Tarzan, sitting high up in the trees beyond the reach of Kerchak’s heavy body and flailing fists, reflected that maybe his decision to return to the pack had not been wise. As long as Kerchak was king, he would never again really be able to be a part of the pack.  He had left at dawn the next morning, his mother and Akut trailing after him.

The treehouse was as damaged as ever, with great holes in the ceiling and floor. It had never struck him as remarkable before, but his time with the Porters had opened Tarzan’s eyes in more ways than one. Someone had built this house, he knew that now. Some human who had been frightened of what waited on the jungle floor. He wondered what had happened to them, and hoped that the things they had left behind would tell him.

Books and crockery and the remains of bedding had been the toys of Tarzan’s childhood, things to throw at his brother and friends, to toss back and forth between his hands. The furniture had made for fun games, to see how long he could balance, and there had been boxes to hide in and pop out of, frightening Kala and earning her affectionate smack. Tarzan had enjoyed stacking his objects in one of the boxes, then dumping them out and beginning again. If he remembered correctly, that’s where he had left the books, in a box under what he now knew was the bed, where the wind and rain wouldn’t affect them. He leaned under to look-yes, there it was. Tarzan drew the little trunk out and opened the lid.

Inside lay the last remaining possessions of whoever had built this house. There were three books; five teacups, two of which were unbroken; a pocket watch like the one Father wore, an empty inkwell; and the mildewed leather notebook that Tarzan had told Jane of. He took the books out and thumbed through them. Two seemed to be novels like the one that Jane read--full of words, anyway--and one was a book of maps like those on Father’s wall. Colorful lands called Africa, Asia, America, Europe (though he wasn’t sure how to read the last one). Tarzan lingered over the maps for a while--he had never been able to read them before--then put them back in the box. It was the notebook which interested him. He thumbed it open and studied the pages, hoping to read it, but the writing was thin and slanty, and he could not decipher it. He turned to the page that had always been his favorite, where a tiny handprint rested in the center, every line and whorl recorded in detail. Tarzan, when he was small, had wondered where the little hand came from. Now, with Jane and Father’s questions about his human parents ringing in his memory, his curiosity was almost unbearable. Tarzan had no memory of any family but Kala and Akut and the rest of the pack. He had always wondered why he was so different from them. Now he was beginning to understand.

The other treasures interested him, too, now that he knew what they were. He turned the teacups over; they were green and cream, with the word ‘Stafford’ printed on the bottom. Tarzan wondered what a Stafford was. Jane and Father just called them teacups. He put them back in the box, nestled among the books, and closed the lid. He would take it back to the village to show to Jane and Father. The trunk itself was of curious workmanship. There was one like it in Jane’s room, though that one was bigger and did not have the swiveling shelves in it that this one did to keep whatever was in the box’s belly from moving about. Tarzan crouched beside the half-ruined bed and looked around the house. Something terrible had happened to whoever lived here. He felt strangely sad about it.

Kala, when asked, could not elaborate much. _They were strangers. Tall and white and with strange fur. They left you here and I found you._

_Left me?_

_One put the other in the ground. Then he died. I took you with me._

Tarzan swallowed and looked at the trunk, with its books and its cups and its leather diary. It was all there, he knew. The answer to this strange puzzle.

He spent the night in the treehouse, curled up between Kala and Akut in the corner, and in the morning shouldered his trunk and began the return journey, to answers that would change everything.

 

 

Author's Note: It pleases me to no end that people are still reading this story, even if it's nowhere near as popular as my Beauty and the Beast fics. But it would make me even happier if y'all commented on it. I am a needy author and I would love to hear what you think!


	10. The Diary

  
  
  
**Chapter Nine**

 

Professor Porter tapped his pen against his notebook and sighed. He had been writing for days, it seemed, and words spilled across the page--like little black ants, Tarzan would have said. Porter smiled a little at the memory; Tarzan had a fascination with handwriting and could sit, spellbound, for hours watching him commit his work to the page. But now, Porter was uncomfortable. For the words on the page were about Tarzan.

Archimedes Q. Porter had spent the majority of his life studying African cultural practices, the people, the languages, the way they lived their lives. Bringing Jane to live among the Koba had been in part a reaction to the grief of losing his wife, a method of escaping the pain and horror of the loss, but it had also enabled him to make his name in the burgeoning field of African studies. Porter had submitted hundreds of letters and essays to scientific journals over the years, had even travelled to Europe while Jane was at the colonial school in Boma to give lectures for learned societies and universities, and his fame and renown as a scientist and explorer had led to enormous audiences and invitations to speak at and write for prestigious organizations. Never in his life had Porter hesitated to present his research to the scientific community. The idea had never crossed his mind. He had visited the depths of Africa, met people who spoke no recorded language, attended ceremonies that would shock and enthrall Westerners. And he had always reported back in great detail, hoping to expand the understanding of those in the West.

And now here was a young man who had walked out of the jungle with no language, no history, no sense whatsoever about what it was to be a human, let alone a man, and for the first time in his life, Porter hesitated.

Science demanded that he domesticate Tarzan, that he present him to the scientific community. But Porter couldn’t bear the thought of removing him from the jungle, of submitting Tarzan to the curious stares of the public and the rigorous observation of scientists like some freak of nature. A life on the scientific circuit would kill Tarzan, or at least break his spirit. And so Porter, despite diligently recording each day’s interactions with the young man, did not know what to do.

Perhaps it would have been different if the circumstances were other than as they were. From the first moment he had set eyes on Tarzan, Porter had seen him less as a subject of study than as a young man in desperate need of aid. A man of European descent surviving in the African jungle was almost unheard of, and yet Tarzan could remember nothing else. Two months on and it still amazed Porter that the boy had not succumbed to his injuries that first night. And there were scars all across his body: claw and bite marks, some of them deep. He was clearly made of stern stuff. And yet, Tarzan was gentle. He rarely spoke above a murmur, and when he touched them it was with tender hands and kindly, curious eyes. Porter sighed again.

“What’s wrong?” Jane leaned in the doorway, her head cocked to one side.

Porter gave her a small smile. “Nothing, per se. I’m just...thinking.”

“About Tarzan,” Jane guessed. She straightened and moved further into the room.

“Indeed,” Porter said. “I don’t know what to do about him.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I were to take him to America or England right now, people would go wild. They would want to study him, to learn about him and gawk at him. He’s a fascinating character, a man with no language or history-”

“Or personal boundaries,” Jane added with a grin.

“-But I can’t fathom it, somehow,” Porter concluded. “I don’t know whether or not to alert the authorities, or submit a paper on him, or what I should do.”

Jane frowned, biting her lip. “Perhaps nothing? I mean, can you see Tarzan out in the world? It took him so long to set foot in the village.”

“I can’t,” Porter said. “That’s what concerns me.”

“Well,” Jane said, “wait until he comes back. Give him time, Father, to get used to being with people. He’s still wild, whatever we’ve taught him.”

Porter nodded, slowly, amused that she was parroting his own words back at him. “He is that. Almost completely feral. But he’s trying to become human; it’s very impressive.”

The fact was that Porter was continually impressed by Tarzan’s intelligence. He was illiterate and uncouth and immensely strong, but he was also sweet and kind and gentle, and his readiness to learn amazed Porter. Six weeks and he had grasped the basics of both English and Lingalla. Before, Porter would never have believed that a full-grown feral man could learn anything. Tarzan was proving him wrong. Then, too, there was the fact that he was beginning to love Tarzan dearly. No, he could not take him out of Africa yet, and he would not subject him to science. Jane was right--he would wait and see.

That Tarzan had set out to answer the question of where he had come from excited Porter. Ever since Tarzan had mentioned his books, Porter had been desperately curious about this treehouse and whoever might have built it. That treehouse, wherever it was, held the key to the mystery that was Tarzan. Porter was certain of it. He wished the young man had let him go with him. He wished that he would hurry back.   

*

Early, early in the morning, Tarzan was awakened by rain pattering through the trees. He shifted in his nest and opened his eyes. It was still dark and he was alone in the treetop bower he had settled in the night before. His blanket was wrapped around him (wonderful thing, blankets), soft and warm, but the rain had come on suddenly and was swiftly growing stronger. Tarzan brushed sleep and rain from his eyes and uncurled himself. Best to go on, then.

Two days previously Tarzan had parted company from Kala and Akut, leaving them with the rest of the pack while he continued on to the village. Akut had been troubled by this.

_You must stay._

_I cannot.  Kerchak will kill me._

Akut had huffed in annoyance. _I will protect you. I always have._

 _I know. But I must take these things to the humans_.

Kala was more understanding, though she too was uncertain about his departure. _I will follow you in three sleeps._

_I know. I love you._

So he had left them behind and hurried towards the village, his box resting on his shoulder, and he had only been a few miles away when night fell and made travel impossible. Tarzan had settled high in an ancient gnarled tree, wishing for the first time in his life that he had one of the lanterns that Father and Jane and the villagers used to see in the dark. He had rolled himself into his blanket to await first light. Now that the rain was here, though, Tarzan was disinclined to wait any longer. Dawn’s first light was not far off. He folded his blanket and tucked it away, then picked up his box and continued on his journey, moving cautiously through the rain-soaked jungle.

In the pre-dawn light, he came out from under the trees into the meadow behind the Porters’ house. The village was dark and quiet; the Porters’ house, too. Tarzan grinned to see it, his heart swelling within him. Soon he would see Jane, and know what the books said.

Moving on silent feet, Tarzan gained the porch and set his burden down by the back door. The door was shut up and locked, the inhabitants safe from predators had Father had promised him they were. Tarzan walked along the veranda, peering through the shutters. Father was asleep in his room, rumbling. Tarzan grinned at the familiar sound. Jane’s shutters were shielded by the soft white curtains she made her room pretty with, but he thought she was asleep, too. He retraced his steps to the back porch, where the wash basin stood empty. Taking it up, he dunked it in the rain barrel, then washed his face and hands. He was all covered in jungle dirt; probably they would make him take a bath later. Tarzan didn’t mind; he liked sitting in hot water, even if it did take a long time to make the water hot. He wondered idly if he should have detoured to the hot waters in the jungle, where the air smelled strange but you could sit in natural hot pools. But that would have added a day to his journey. Digging into his pack, Tarzan retrieved his skirts and tied them clumsily about his waist. He could do knots, but the fabric never fell as nicely when he dressed himself as it did when Mwana helped him. Ah, well. He looked human enough now, and he wasn’t naked. He knew now how the humans felt about nakedness.

Daylight began to color the sky, turning dark purple to dark blue, then pale grey. Tarzan paced the porch, wondering how to get inside. He didn’t want to wake Father, who was often cranky in the morning; nor did he want to disturb Jane. Bending, Tarzan examined the door latch. He knew that there was a bolt inside, but perhaps they had not locked it? He tried the latch. The door opened. Amazing.

Tarzan stepped into the kitchen, vowing to have words with Father later about safety. He set his box down again and walked through the house silently so as not to disturb his friends. Jane was asleep, all curled up and warm like a mouse in its den. Father, too, slept, but he sprawled across his bed. Tarzan felt a great rush of affection for them. It had been good to go back to the jungle and be with Mother and Akut. Now it was good to be back in the Porters’ little house.

But he would not wake them. Tarzan returned to the kitchen and began to rummage in the pantry. He would eat and wait.

*

Jane lay in her bed, listening to the sound of the falling rain. The storm had come up suddenly, as jungle storms tended to do, and cool gusts of air blew through the shutters of her little bedroom. It was nice to lie in bed, to wallow. It was past dawn; Jane knew that she should be up and doing, but sometimes she indulged in laziness. Besides, there wasn’t much work to do today. Later she would go up to the hall to work with the villagers on their English and French. With more and more Europeans arriving in the Congo, it was important for them to be able to communicate. But lessons took place mid-morning; she had more than enough time to just lie here for a little longer.

Besides, Father was still asleep. Jane could hear him snoring down the hall.

A bar-breasted firefinch was singing, somewhere in the house. Jane lay listening to it, half-awake, for a long moment before common sense asserted itself and she sat up. What was a firefinch doing in the house? She rolled out of bed and padded out of her room, rubbing her face as she followed the bird call into the kitchen.

Tarzan sat crouched on a chair at the table, a half-eaten meal of bread, butter, and honey on the board before him, trilling like a songbird. A battered chest stood sentry at the back door. His hair was damp from the rain, his skirts tied clumsily about his waist, and crumbs littered the tabletop. A bunch of freshly cut bananas was near to hand. He had clearly been there for some time. Jane felt a smile breaking across her face.

“Tarzan! You came back!”

He smiled at her and climbed down from the chair. “Jane,” he said, and ran his hand over her face, thumb brushing her lips. “I am miss you.”

Jane smiled and stepped in to hug him. He smelled of rain and jungle foliage. “I missed you, too. Why didn’t you wake me? Or Father?”

“You are sleeping,” Tarzan replied, his arms warm and strong around her. “I am hungry. I eat and call, until you get up.”

He gestured again at the mess on the table. Jane grinned a little; he’d gotten the use of utensils, but didn’t half make a mess with them. And the bread was cut in an awkward shape, where he had carved off chunks of it, and honey was drizzled all over everything. The simple absurdity of it made Jane want to hug him again.

“I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”

Tarzan ran his hands down her arms and patted her. “Kerchak no hurt me again. He _didn’t_ hurt me. And I go to treehouse, for books. It is a long journey. Nine sleeps.”

He gestured at the chest, and Jane looked at it closely, registering it for the first time. It was a battered footlocker set with iron studs. It looked as though it had been through the wars; the paint was peeling, and there were gouges in its sides.

“There are Staffords, too,” Tarzan said.

“Staffords?”

“I think they are teacups, but they say Stafford on bottom,” Tarzan said, and reached for the knife to cut more bread. “Jane, I bring bananas. Is there banana fritters?”

“ _Are_ there banana fritters,” Jane corrected. She gave the chest one last glance and moved to light the stove. “There will be now. I’d say this calls for a celebration. Why don’t you wake Father? He should be up.”

Tarzan took one last bite of his sandwich and vanished down the hall. Jane heard her father’s exclamation a moment later and grinned. Joy coursed through her, that her friend had returned, and also curiosity about the chest he had brought with him. She looked at it again, examining the peeling paintwork. The iron studs on the lid spelled out initials: A.C. Who was A.C.? Jane was dying to know, but the frying pan was hot and there were banana fritters to make. She turned her attention to breakfast.

When Father finally wandered into the kitchen, still yawning, Jane had a pan full of fritters bubbling in oil, and Tarzan was out on the veranda, scrubbing himself clean with soap and a sponge. Porter gave Jane a kiss on the cheek and settled at the table.

“Are we celebrating his return, then?” he teased, nodding at the hot fritters.

“He asked for them,” Jane replied, “and he brought the bananas.”

“And what’s this?” Porter got up and knelt down to examine the trunk. “Where did this come from?”

“From treehouse,” Tarzan said, appearing naked in the doorway. He was freshly scrubbed and soaked. Jane grinned and looked away. “Books and Staffords.”

“Teacups,” Jane said, ladling the fritters out of the hot oil. “Put your skirts on.”

Tarzan scoffed and reached for the soft green cloth. “They say Stafford on bottom,” he reminded her.

“That’s where they make them,” Porter said. “In the city of Stafford, in England. Will you show me?”

Tarzan lifted the chest and put it on the table, gesturing for him to open it. Jane, setting the fritters to cool, came to watch. Porter ran his fingers over the box’s initials and opened the lid.

Inside lay Tarzan’s treasures. Porter removed the teacups first--fine English pottery, glazed white and jade, and somehow unbroken despite their time in the jungle. He set them on the table and reached again into the chest. Here was a cut-glass inkwell, the ink long dry, and a dented pocket watch. Here were the books Tarzan had mentioned: an atlas and two novels, _Sense and Sensibility_ and _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ . With an increasing sense of unreality, Porter removed the last item from the box. It was a mildewed notebook with _Colonial Office: John Clayton_ embossed in gold on the cover. Porter’s heart began to race.

“Where is this treehouse, Tarzan?” he asked, looking up at the young man.

“By the big water. The ocean,” Tarzan said. He made a vague gesture towards the jungle. “Nine sleeps from here, going fast. I go slower coming back, because of box.”

“Do you think you could show me on a map?”

Tarzan shrugged. “Maybe.”

Porter opened the atlas, noting that the date on the frontispiece was 1860. He thumbed through it until he found a map of the West African coast.

“Here is Boma,” he said, pointing to the port town at the end of the Congo. “And here is Muanda. We are inland, here.” He traced his finger up the river and along one of the tributaries, to where the old map merely noted “tribal lands”. “Where is this treehouse?”

Tarzan bent over the map, studying it carefully. “Here,” he said at last, pointing to a bit of coastline well south of the river. “Small river here, see? Three days north of treehouse.”

“Yes, I see.” Porter traced his fingers over the page and held up the diary. “Did you read this?”

“No. The writing is funny,” Tarzan said.

“What is it?” Jane asked.

“A diary,” Porter said, showing her the cover. “I’m going to take it and read...”

Porter opened the cover and looked at the pages; they were filled with handsome copperplate writing. Small wonder Tarzan couldn’t read it; he was still barely at printing. The first entry was dated 4th November 1860. Forgetting breakfast entirely, Porter wandered towards his study, sat, and began to read.

“Well,” Jane said as she and Tarzan watched him walk away. “We may as well eat, anyway. Tea?”

Porter didn’t emerge from his study for a long time. Jane took him a plate of breakfast and a cup of tea, which went cold and unnoticed at his elbow. When it came time for her to go to the village hall for lessons, Jane put on gum boots and took Tarzan with her. Porter paid them no heed; he was lost in the story unfolding before him.

It was fascinating and terrible. In the fall of 1860, John Clayton II, called Jack, son of the Earl of Greystoke, received a diplomatic position in the Colonial Office in Freetown. Preparations were made, and he and his wife, Alice, set out, sailing aboard The Arrow. But storms along the coast of Africa blew the ship off course, eventually wrecking it. Jack and Alice were the sole survivors, left with no idea of where they were and forced to fend for themselves with whatever they could scavenge from the wreck.

Alice had been injured, suffering a broken ankle, and by the time she had healed enough to walk, her pregnancy had become pronounced, forcing them to abandon their plan of walking north along the coast until they reached some form of civilization until after the baby came. Jack built them a treehouse, and cared for his wife throughout her pregnancy, trekking daily into the jungle for fruit and fishing in the sea. Somehow they survived, and Alice was safely delivered of her child. Jack noted the date carefully: the eighth day of November 1861. They named him for his father and grandfather: John Thomas Clayton III. He even took the precaution of dabbing the baby’s hand in ink and pressing it into the page. Porter traced the tiny handprint, his heart pounding.

But Alice never recovered. Living in such reduced circumstances had robbed her of her health, and childbirth did nothing to aid her. Porter noted the growing horror of the entries, as Jack tracked his wife’s illness. He knew what the inevitable conclusion would be, but Porter couldn’t help the sorrow that flooded him at the entry for the 19th of February 1862: “Today I buried my Alice. My dear Alice.” It was followed by a tiny drawing of a grave at the base of the treehouse.

And then, the last entry, written a day later:

“John my son: you are the heir to Greystoke, our future. England is your home, not this wretched place. If I do not survive, I pray that someone will rescue you.”

After that, nothing.

Porter closed the diary and sat back, cradling it in his hands. What had happened to Jack Clayton? Had he succumbed to disease? More likely he had been killed. By what? And how had his baby son come to be living with the apes?

His thoughts flashed to the young man they had been calling Tarzan, who had approached Jane in the jungle, acting as though he had never seen a woman before. Who had never heard a spoken language, or worn clothing, or slept inside a real house, in a real bed. John Clayton III, heir to an English earldom, who liked banana fritters and imitating animals and who was fascinated by all the things they had to teach him. Porter rubbed his face and sighed. What on earth was he going to do?

 

 

Author's Note: I can't tell you how happy I am to know that you guys like this fic! It's going to get a bit emotional from here as they continue on this journey. Please let me know what you think!


	11. Jack and Alice

**Chapter Ten**

 

Tarzan felt very easy walking up to the village meeting hall in Jane’s company. It was more familiar to him now, the village; he did not fear it anymore, nor the people who lived there. There were many of them in the hall that morning, taking shelter from the rain, laughing and talking as they went about their business. Men worked at the looms at one side of the hall; women sewed the finished fabric at the other end. Children ran between the two groups, kicking a ball back and forth until it was taken away. They waved at Jane and Tarzan as they came inside. 

“Tarzan, you have returned!” Chief Muviro came forward, a smile lighting his face. He touched his forehead to Tarzan’s in the traditional greeting. “Welcome back.”

Tarzan smiled and let Muviro take him from Jane’s side over to the men at the looms. Wasimbu and Kwete were there, as well as Mwana’s husband, Kolo, and a man whom Tarzan had no met before, called Usy. Their work was at varying levels of completion, one loom entirely empty.  Tarzan touched it and looked a question at the chief. 

“The work was finished yesterday,” Muviro said. “See, the women have it now. Would you like to set the warp?”

Tarzan nodded, and was led to a workbox full of newly dyed threads. He sifted through the colors; blue, green, brown, yellow, red. He chose the red, carrying it back to the loom. The men chuckled. Tarzan cocked his head at them, confused.

“Are you getting married, Tarzan?” Kwete asked. 

“Married?”

Wasimbu gave his friend a shove. “Red is what we Koba wear for weddings. Kwete is teasing you.”

“I...don’t understand.”

For a moment they floundered, looking at each other. Then Muviro spoke. “A marriage is when two people make a family together, forever. The community recognizes them as a family.”

“Oh.” Tarzan nodded, remembering Father’s speech about men and women early on in his stay with them. “I am no making mating with anyone. I like red.”

The men laughed again, but it was kind-hearted, and Wasimbu showed Tarzan how to wrap the thread around a handloom. This was not nearly as large as the looms the rest of the men used, but as Wasimbu explained, a complete beginner had to start small. Tarzan watched his hands wrapping the warp around the frame, then the sideways in-and-out that Wasimbu called the weft. The threads were pulled tight, but not too tight, into a fine cloth. Eventually he passed Tarzan the shuttle, and the wild man began to pass the threads over and under the warp. 

“Good, that’s good work, Tarzan,” Wasimbu said, and Tarzan smiled. 

He crouched down at their feet, working at his weaving, for a long time, while above him the men traded news and told stories. Tarzan listened carefully, letting the language wash over him. Their speech, when not directed at him, was fast and rhythmic; it made him think of water leaping over submerged rocks. Beautiful to listen to, even if he could only understand some of it. Tarzan bent his attention to the weaving. It, too, held a rhythm. Back and forth, back and forth, over-under, over-under. The thread he had chosen was fine and had to be handled carefully so that it would not break. Back and forth, back and forth. By the time Jane came to fetch him to go home, Tarzan had woven a rectangle some five inches by fourteen: the beginnings of a small cloth. 

“It’s beautiful,” Jane said, touching it with light fingers. “Excellent work, Tarzan.”

Tarzan was more critical, looking at the parts where he had snapped the thread or made the fabric lumpy. “It not beautiful like Kwete’s.”

“But it’s a beginning,” Jane said. “You’ll get better with practice.”

“Mine were much worse when I started,” Kwete agreed. “Patience, Tarzan.”

Patience. Slowly. Step by step. Tarzan sighed. He had so much to learn. The human part of his felt exhilarated, delighted, excited. But the part of him that was all animal wondered what the use of learning was, when in two month’s time the Mangani would travel to their winter lands and he would have to leave the humans behind. 

 

*

They splashed back to the house through the warm African rain, their arms bumping together as they walked. The rain soaked into Tarzan’s hair and ran down his body; he ignored it as he always had. Jane had put her funny hooves back on, and squelched with every step. Tarzan found this strange and amusing. He wondered if only white people wore hooves like Father’s and Jane’s. The Koba did not wear them, and his own feet were muddy to ankle. 

Oh, it  _ was _ good to be back in the village, back with Jane. A part of Tarzan that he had not known was missing felt whole. And Father had the notebook, which made him happy. Tarzan wondered if he was done reading it and had the answers that he wanted. He must be-he was standing on the porch, a strange look on his face. Jane and Tarzan slowed. 

“Father? What’s wrong?” Jane asked. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Father said, but his voice was strange. “Jane, may I speak to you alone for a moment?”

Tarzan glanced at her, disquiet filling him. Something was wrong. Jane shrugged and brushed his arm, then followed Father into the house, shedding her hooves as she went. Tarzan walked around the house to the back door, where he splashed water into the wash basin and sat on the steps, scrubbing the mud from his feet. Dirt could be swept away with a broom--Jane had shown him how--but mud took more effort to clean up and Tarzan did not want to make Jane upset. He sluiced water over his feet again and shook them, wiggling his toes. There. Clean. 

“Tarzan? Would you come in here, please?”

Father leaned out the back door, his face still sober. Tarzan stood and followed him into the kitchen, where Jane was sitting at the table. He sat down next to her, nervous, and took her hand. Father sat down across from them. He held the notebook in his hands. 

“Tarzan,” Father said again. His voice was still strange; quiet and sober. “I’ve finished my reading. This book is a diary, a book where people can write down their thoughts and the things that happen to them in their lives. Do you understand?”

Tarzan considered this, and shook his head. Jane squeezed his hand. 

“You’ve seen us writing in notebooks, remember? Sometimes I write about the things that happen to me,” Jane said. “That’s what a diary is.”

“Oh.” Tarzan thought about this. It was true; he had seen them writing, but assumed they were just telling stories. “So this notebook is a person?”

Father gave a small smile. “It’s a person’s thoughts, written down so that their children know what happened to them. And this diary was written by your father. Your human father.”

Tarzan stared at him, utterly confused. “I have no father.  _ You _ are Father.”

Father gave him that same sad smile. “I am  _ Jane’s _ father, Tarzan. You learned to call me father because that’s what Jane calls me. But you have a different father, and his name was John. He was named after  _ his _ father, and so his friends and family called him Jack. Jack Clayton.”

“Jack Clayton,” Tarzan repeated. The name clicked and rolled in his mouth. “Jack Clayton.”

“Yes.” Father rubbed a hand over his mouth and sighed. “Do you understand?”

“Jack Clayton is my father,” Tarzan said. But that wasn’t right. He had never had a father, only a mother and brother. “Where is he?”

“He died, Tarzan, a long time ago. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Tarzan looked down at the diary, thoughts racing. He had a father, who was dead. But his diary was here. “I don’t understand.”

Father sighed again. He looked, Tarzan thought, tired and sad. “It’s a long story, and not a happy one, I’m afraid. I’ll tell it slowly, and you must tell me if you don’t understand.”

Tarzan nodded and glanced over at Jane. She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. “It’ll be alright. At least then you’ll know.”

Know what? Tarzan looked at Father and waited. 

“It’s like this,” Porter said. “Jack Clayton and his wife, Alice, moved to Africa to work for the British Colonial Office in Freetown. That’s north of here. They took a ship from England, where they were from.”

None of this meant anything to Tarzan. Africa was where they lived, but what was England? And what was a colonial office? 

“England is a land, many weeks’ journey from here,” Father said, seeing his confusion. “We are in Africa, here.” He drew a line down the table. “And England is far, far to the north, over there.” He gestured towards Jane’s elbow. “It’s cold there, and the people are pale and white, like Jane, and me, and you.”

“But they no stay in England?”

“No, they got on a boat and came to Africa. They were supposed to sail to Freetown, but a storm blew them far off-course and the ship sank. Jack and Alice were the only people on it who didn’t die.

“Now, they would have walked along the coast until they met people who could help them, but Alice had broken her ankle in the wreck and couldn’t walk. They had to stay where they were until she got better, so Jack built a treehouse for them to live in, so that they would be safe.”

“Jack built the treehouse?” Tarzan was delighted; here was a mystery solved. 

“Yes, and he and Alice survived. They lived,” Father said, seeing Tarzan’s uncertainty. “And while Alice waited for her leg to get better, she had a baby.” 

Tarzan’s heart began to pound. Father and Jane were watching him closely. 

“It was a boy, and they named him John, after his father and his grandfather. John Clayton III. And that baby boy was you.”

Tarzan started, looking back and forth between them in disbelief. “But-but I have no Jack, no Alice! I have Kala and Akut and Mangani!”

“But you had Jack and Alice first,” Jane said, her voice low and gentle. “And they named you John.”

“And they loved you,” Father said, putting his own hand on top of Jane and Tarzan’s. “They loved you  _ so much _ . You have to know that, son.”

Tarzan stared at them, bewildered. “But-where are they?”

Father’s mouth was sad. “Alice died shortly after you were born. Birth is hard in the best of circumstances, and she was already weak and ill. Jack’s last entry in his diary was the next day. He must have died soon after, or else he would have taken you and started to look for people.” Father hesitated. “He wrote that there were great apes near the treehouse. Maybe…”

Tarzan’s heart dropped. He looked at his hands, entwined with Jane’s and Father’s on the table. A family. He had had a human family once, and they were lost. Had they been frightened, lost and alone in the jungle with no friends, no village? Tarzan searched his memory, but he could not recall ever seeing people who looked like the Porters, like himself. But the treehouse was in the Mangani lands. And the Mangani did not tolerate threats. He raised his eyes. 

“It is sad,” he said. “I am sad.”

“But do you understand?” Father asked. “Do you understand who Jack and Alice are to you?

Tarzan nodded. “They are my family. But they are dead. But-” He broke off. No. This was wrong. “But I have a family. I have Kala and Akut and Mangani-”

“But they are not your  _ human  _ family,” Father said. “Your human family was from England, and they named you John. That’s your human name. Not Tarzan, but John. John Clayton. And you are twenty years old."

Tarzan pulled his hands away from them and pushed himself back from the table. “No! No John. I am not John, I-” He growled his Mangani name at them. “I have Kala, I have Akut, I no have Jack and Alice!”

“Tarzan-” Jane said, but he reeled back from her outstretched hand, towards the back door. 

“I have family!” he cried. “Kala is family! I no have Jack and Alice!”

“Please, Tarzan, wait!” Father said, but Tarzan turned and stumbled headlong out the back door. He ran blindly, away from the diary on the table, away from the notion of a human family, of a father and mother who were not Kala, not Mangani.

“We could have handled that a bit better,” Father said sadly as they watched him vanish into the jungle. “But he knows now. It’s good for him to know.”

Jane swallowed. Sorrow filled her, for Tarzan, and for Jack and Alice who had died all alone and so far from home. She sighed. What would happen now?

 

 

Author's Note: A lot of information for Tarzan to take in, poor guy. But now he knows. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know what you think. I love hearing from you guys. :-)

 


	12. Two Worlds

  
**Chapter Eleven**

 

The rain stopped shortly thereafter, and still Tarzan did not reappear. Jane baked bread and fretted; Porter paced in his study and fretted. Finally, as the afternoon drew on, Jane lost patience with herself and strode out of the house towards the jungle. 

She had no real hope of actually finding Tarzan--reason said that he would be far away by now--but the need to look was strong all the same. Jane marched into the eves of the jungle, lifting her skirts from the muddy ground and picking her way through the dense green foliage, calling softly to him. 

“Tarzan? Please come back! Tarzan?”

She scanned the trees, looking for him. It was hot and damp under the canopy, and birds sang a raucous chorus all around. Jane sighed and craned her neck, looking deeper into the branches above, where shadows filled the trees. As her eyes adjusted, she realized that a face was looking back at her, high up in the trees. Tarzan. He was curled up on the branch of a huge tree, some fifty feet in the air, gazing down at her. Jane was surprised; they were not more than two hundred feet from the edge of the jungle. 

“Tarzan, will you come down?”

He looked away from her. Well, then. Jane looked around the tree trunk and found a foothold. She gathered her skirts up into her belt and caught hold of the trunk. A jump, a grab, and she was clambering inelegantly up into the tree, scrambling from branch to branch. She could feel Tarzan’s eyes on her as she climbed, and felt a flash of annoyance. This must be so easy for him. Well, let him watch. She was not wild, but she could certainly climb a tree. Jane hauled herself up to the level just below Tarzan and stood, panting a little. Confounded wild man, climbing to ridiculous heights. Jane scrambled for a hand hold and slipped. For a heart-stopping moment she flailed against the trunk, certain she was about to crash to her death. Then Tarzan’s hand wrapped itself around her wrist and steadied her, holding her in place. Jane caught her breath. 

“Thank you!” she gasped. 

Tarzan frowned. “I would not let you fall.”

He unfolded himself and bent down to hook an arm around her waist. He pulled her up to his branch as though it were nothing and set her down, then folded back into himself, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes cast down. Jane settled herself, letting her feet hang off either side of the wide, mossy branch. For a long moment she studied him--he was soaked again--then leaned forward and put her hand, palm up, on his knees. 

“It’s hard, I know,” she said. “It’s a lot to take in. Tell me what is wrong, Tarzan.”

Tarzan raised his eyes to hers at last, and took her hand. “I don’t have words.”

“Try.”

Tarzan bit his lip; absurdly, the motion made Jane feel a pang of affection for him. “I am thinking I am broken, always. Broken Mangani. My Kala’s child, but broken. I don’t have hair like Mangani, I no am strong like Mangani. Broken. I am not thinking I am Man, because Man don’t look like me.” In his agitation, Tarzan stumbled over his words. Jane nodded her understanding. “So I am broken. Now Father says I have human family. But I don’t know humans before. I don’t have Jack and Alice. I have Kala and Akut. They love me. They are my family. But diary say no.”

He broke off with a helpless gesture. His grey eyes were full of tears. Jane’s heart went out to him.

“I understand,” she said. “The family you had is not the family you know. But Tarzan, just because you had a human family once does not mean Kala and Akut are not your family, too. Jack and Alice died when you were a baby. Kala must have found you and taken you as her own.”

Tarzan nodded. “I am Kala’s child, always. I only have Kala. She is only one who cares about me.”

“And she is your mother,” Jane said. “There is nothing wrong with that. You can have Jack and Alice, and still have Kala. Sometimes children are orphaned-that’s when their parents die. Then they find another family, another mother and father, if they are lucky.  _ You _ were lucky. Kala took you as her child. She loves you.”

Tarzan brushed at his eyes. “Am I Man or Mangani?”

Jane hesitated. “I don’t know. You are you, and you are human. Tarzan, or John, or whatever you choose to be.”

“I am nobody,” he whispered. “Broken man, broken Mangani. Stupid wild man.”

“That is not true,” Jane snapped. 

“It is true!” Tarzan cried, and Jane recoiled a little. He didn’t usually raise his voice. “I no can speak like human, I no can work or weave or make food or help family. I no am strong like Mangani, no as fast. I am all wrong. Bad. Broken.”

He put his face into his knees and huddled there, trembling. After a long moment, Jane reached out and put her hand on his head. She ran her hand over his matted hair, trying to convey comfort and reassurance. Her heart broke for his pain and confusion; stroking him did not seem to be enough. Jane scooted forward and drew him into her arms, and held him close. He was warm and wet in her arms, and after a moment’s hesitation, he folded against her, his arms slipping about her waist. 

“Hey, listen to me. You are _ not broken _ . You are  _ not bad _ . You are  _ good _ . You saved me from Kerchak, remember? You’ve had a different life, but you are smart, and brave, and kind, and good. I wouldn’t like you half as much as I do if you weren’t.”

Tarzan raised his face and looked at her with big, worried eyes. “I am not stupid?”

“Certainly not! You just haven’t had the same advantages as other humans. Now you are learning, but you can be whoever you want to be. No one is going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do. And your family can be whatever you say it is. Do you understand?”

Tarzan thought about it for a long moment, then nodded. Jane smiled. 

“Good,” she said. “Now will you come home with me? Or are you going to Kala?”

“I go to Kala tomorrow,” Tarzan said. “I go home with you now.”

“Good,” Jane said, swinging her legs over the tree branch. If she stayed straddling the wretched thing a moment longer, she thought she would crack. “Now we just have to get down from this wretched tree.”

She was starting to scramble down when Tarzan’s hand came out to stop her. Without a word he stood, smoothed his soaked skirts down, and reached for her, pulling her up beside him. Jane let Tarzan sling her arms around him, one over his shoulder, one under. He hefted her onto his back as  if she weighed no more than a rucksack. 

“All right?” he asked.

“How do you intend to get us out of this tree?” Jane demanded. 

Tarzan smiled at her, bent forward onto his hands, and dived. From branch to branch they fell, Tarzan dropping like a cat, and Jane burst out screaming. And then they were on the jungle floor, safe and sound, and Tarzan stood up from all fours and looked at her. Jane stayed clutched to his back, howling. Grinning, Tarzan patted her leg and unhooked her arms. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, setting her down and then catching her as she reeled.

“Don’t ever do that again!” Jane howled, and his grin broadened. Jane clutched at him, shaking all over from the adrenaline. “No human I’ve ever met can do that. And you say you are broken. Oh my  _ God _ .”

“You are scared,” Tarzan said, surprised. “It’s not dangerous.”

Jane managed to get her feet under her without flailing, and shook her head. “Maybe for you! Ugh, my heart’s going so fast.”

Tarzan put his hand on her chest, and raised his eyebrows at the way her heartbeat slammed against his palm. He took Jane’s hand and held it to his own chest. He was perfectly calm. 

“My dear,” said Jane wryly, taking her hand away from his warm wet skin, “kindly don’t ever think you are anything but extraordinary. Come on, let’s go home. I need a drink after that!”

Tarzan laughed, and they walked out of the jungle together. 

  
  
  
  
Author's Note: Short and sweet, and the true beginning of Tarzan's inner conflict. I hope you liked the chapter! Please let me know what you think!  
  



	13. Summer's End

**Chapter Twelve**

 

Summer passed, the days drawing ever closer to the start of the rainy season that would see the Mangani migrating to the mountains. Tarzan divided his time between his ape-family and the Koba village, spending some nights with Kala and Akut and others stretched out on his mattress on Jane’s floor. And during the day, he learned. 

The funny and annoying thing about humans was that they were so well-learned, so endlessly fascinating. For every bit of knowledge that Tarzan accumulated, there were a dozen things that he did not know. And he wanted to know  _ everything _ . 

Why did people wear clothes? Where did clothes come from? Why did Jane and Father wear more clothes than the Koba? Where did cloth come from? Why did they cook food? Why did they eat meat? Why did Jane and Father speak another language than Lingalla? Why were some men black and others white? Whose idea had it been to paddle a canoe down the river? Why did the Koba men weave and the women sew? Why did they let their babies run around in the open--weren’t they afraid of predators? Why did they till the open land along the river? Why did the Porters write their thoughts on paper, but the Koba sang theirs? Why? Why? Why?

“If you weren’t so intelligent,” Father said wryly, “you would be driving me wild.”

“You are not wild,” Tarzan said, surprised. “You are a human.”

Father had laughed at that, and Tarzan understood that it was a Figure of Speech. That meant that the word meant one thing, but the phrase meant something else. He realized that perhaps he was annoying. 

“No,” Father said, when asked. “You are a pleasure to work with, John.”  
_John_. It was a funny name, short and abrupt. It didn’t click in the mouth like Jack did. Tarzan wasn’t sure that he liked it, or that it suited him. John Clayton--that was a name for a civilized man, not a wild half-Mangani who still preferred to eat with his hands and run naked through the jungle. But Father insisted. 

“It’s what your parents called you. It’s your true name. Tarzan isn’t really a name; it’s more of a statement,” he said. 

Tarzan shrugged and accepted it. He wondered if he should tell Father that the name his mother had always called him meant, as near as Tarzan could translate it, pale-skin. But Father would just say that that was also a title, not a proper name. Humans were strange. 

“Eh, even human names have meanings,” Jane said when asked later that night, when they were both tucked up in their respective beds. “My name means ‘God is gracious’. I suppose yours does, too; they come from the same root.”

“Then why can’t I be Tarzan?”

Jane considered this. “I suppose it’s because we know who your family are now. Generally we get our names from our parents, not our friends.”

Tarzan sat up and looked at her. “I getted ‘Tarzan’ from Chief Muviro. He is also my father.”

Jane rolled onto her side. Tarzan’s face in the moonlight was ernest, his eyes big. “Yes, but not by blood, just like Kala isn’t your mother by blood. Jack and Alice named you John.”

“I don’t like John,” Tarzan grumbled, lying back down and turning away from her. “John is not Kala’s child. I am Kala’s child.”

“I know.” For a moment he felt Jane’s hand rest on his hair. “You don’t have to be John if you don’t want to. Not until you’re ready.”

Would he ever be ready? And what did it matter that he knew who his parents were? They were dead and he had never known them. They had never had a part in his life. 

This attitude of dismissal concerned Professor Porter. He wanted to write to the British Colonial Office in Freetown immediately to let them know that John Clayton III was alive and well in the Congo. But Tarzan would not hear of it. 

“Is not important,” he snapped when the question was put to him. “I no have-I  _ don’t  _ have English family! They are dead. My family is here.”

“But you could have aunts and uncles, grandparents,” Porter argued. “Don’t you want to know them? Don’t you want them to know that you are alive?”

“They are not important,” Tarzan replied, his face hardening. “My family is here. My mother and brother. They are important. Jane is important. No English family.”

“But they are important,” Porter said. “You are an  _ English lord _ , John. You come from a long line of leaders in England, a long line of very important people.”

This brought John up short. “They are chiefs?”

“Of a kind, yes. You are the direct heir, like Wasimbu is heir to Chief Muviro.”

John considered this and finally shook his head. “I am not chief. I cannot be chief. I cannot do anything or lead any people or take care of a mate. The English people would be ashamed of me. They are not important.”

Porter sighed. He knew that to push John would be to see him disappear into the jungle, and he did not want to do that. For one thing, it would be the end of the most interesting anthropological observation of Porter’s life, and for another, Jane would never forgive him. Sitting alone in the parlor, he rested his chin on his hands and considered. He would have to be blind and deaf not to have noticed the romance burgeoning in his household. Neither Jane nor John possessed any guile; they were completely unable to hide their growing attraction to each other. It would have been funny if it didn’t concern Porter so much. 

All summer he had been witness to the looks that each gave the other when they thought they weren’t being observed. John feasted his eyes on Jane. That he loved her was clear, though as far as Porter knew he had not said so to Jane. There was no inappropriate behavior--since the incident where he had slept on Jane’s floor without permission, John had been scrupulous in asking before he did anything that might be considered improper. He was a respectful young man; he took no for an answer, especially when it was Jane who said it, and he did his best to not cross boundaries, even ones that he did not understand. But all the same, the wild man’s attraction to Jane was certain, and Porter was not sure how he felt about it. And what was more, he was certainly unsure of how he felt about Jane’s reciprocation of that affection. 

Jane had always been a very physical girl. From the time she was tiny she had grabbed onto the people she loved, touching their hands, hugging them, patting their cheeks. Porter had never discouraged this in her; there had been no need to. Growing up in Africa, Jane had been freer than her American counterparts to express her affection for her friends and loved ones. The colonial school that Porter had sent her to in Boma had tempered her a little, teaching her the West’s required norms, but coming home to the village every summer had allowed Jane to put those Western foibles on hold and be her own natural, affectionate self. And now here was John, whose own natural affection was barely held in check, and the two of them often touched hands, touched faces, petted and stroked each other’s hair and arms and shoulders. Jane even occasionally kissed John on the cheek, which made the wild man smile and smile. Porter sighed again. If they had loved each other as siblings, he would not have been worried, but it was more than obvious that there was desire between the two. But so far as Porter knew, neither of them had acted in any dishonorable way. 

Oh, he did wish that Diana was here! Jane needed her mother to guide her through all of this. After she had died, his family had encouraged him to remarry, if only for Jane’s sake, but the idea had filled Porter with horror. How could he marry anyone who wasn’t Diana? His Diana, with her opinions and her love of books and travel and adventure, who had wanted to go with him to Africa to do field work. It had been easier to take Jane and go to Africa alone than to contemplate marriage to the many fine women suggested to him. Easier to move to a remote village in the middle of nowhere and pay Mwana to look after his little girl. Diana would have loved John, he knew that. It was impossible not to love John. But for the life of him, Porter did not know how to handle the fact that Jane was a woman now, and that the love of a wild man was not necessarily the love or life he had ever envisaged for her. 

Ultimately, there was nothing he could do but wait and see. 

 

*

Towards the end of the dry season, the entire village forsook their usual duties to assist with the harvest. The fields around the village, bordering down to the river, were heavy with produce that needed to be collected and stored before the rains began. Everyone, from the smallest child to the oldest granny, contributed to the harvest in some way--even the Porters, who were widely and affectionately considered to be useless farmers, lent a hand. Tarzan was no exception. The work was repetitive and tiring, but he had come to love the Koba tribe and wished to show them the same respect and affection that they showed him. And so every dawn found him walking down to the fields, huge harvest baskets slung over his shoulders and a canteen of water dangling at his hip. On his head was the straw hat that Jane had made him, ostensibly to keep him from getting sunburned. Tarzan had been both amused and touched by the present. The sun had long ago burned his skin a soft golden brown, and he never turned red from the heat the way Jane and Father did. But he had learned to understand what a gift was, and besides, Jane had made it for him. So he had kissed her cheek in thanks, which gave them both pleasure, and wore the hat with pride. 

The harvest took a little more than a month to bring in, and by the end of it the village had produced a great store of corn, beans, rice, and manioc to see them through the rains, as well as plenty of fruits and vegetables. There was also the coffee harvest, most of which would be sold down at Boma for the European market. They were welcome to have it, Tarzan privately thought. He had tried coffee once, made for him by the chief’s wife. It had been thick and black and strong, its taste pungent and bitter. He had choked it down before the amused older woman and then spent the rest of the day in an agony of wakefulness, jittering around the village before collapsing in exhaustion. Since then he had stuck to tea. 

But now, finally, the harvest was finished, the food stored away. No one would go hungry that winter. 

“So no one will get thin and sad?” Tarzan asked.

He was lying on the parlor floor, a cushion under his head, resting after the long final day in the fields. His shoulders felt warm; maybe he had been sunburned after all. 

“No, no one will be hungry,” Jane confirmed. She lay sprawled on the sofa somewhere above him. “There will be plenty to eat for everyone.”

Tarzan liked that. The idea of a full storehouse and a happy, full-bellied tribe pleased him. “Mangani do not store food. I am thinking maybe we should.”

Jane sounded amused. “Mangani are animals; they don’t know how to store food. How do they survive the winter?”

Tarzan stretched his aching arms. “We eat eggs and grubs and anything we can find to fill our bellies. Most of us get thin and sad.”

“That’s too bad,” Jane said. “Maybe you should stay here. Then you won’t be hungry.”

“I can’t stay here. Mother is old and grey. Me and Akut must help look after her.”

“I know,” Jane said. “I’ll just miss you when you go.”

Tarzan pulled himself up to his haunches and reached to run his fingers through Jane’s hair. “I will miss you, too, Jane. I am coming back to you.”

“I know,” said Jane, leaning a little into his caress. “Anyway, you’re not leaving before the party.”

The party to celebrate a successful harvest. Tarzan, who had never been to a party in his life, was looking forward to it. According to Wasimbu, there would be food and singing and dancing. There had been campfires during the dry season which Tarzan had attended, but it had mostly been too hot to dance, and so they had confined themselves to songs and stories, dancing only for religious purposes. He liked the Koba songs, as he could sing along without knowing what the words meant. 

The night of the party was clear and cool, the sky an overarching bowl of stars. The village hall had been cleared of everything but a long table at which platters of food were laid out. A bonfire had been built in the center of the room, and for a long time everyone sat about, eating and laughing and talking. Then instruments were brought out: drums and wooden pipes and guitars, and percussion instruments made of gourds filled with dried beans which Tarzan didn’t know the name of. The warriors started the dancing, telling the story of how their ancestors had come to the fertile lands around the great river. Slowly they gave way to the elders, then the elders gave way to the matrons, and then they all danced together. Tarzan, sitting at Chief Muviro’s feet, watched in fascination. How strange dancing was! The dancers moved in time with the music, shaking and contorting their bodies to the beat of the drums. He wanted to rise up and join them, but he did not know the steps. On and on the dancing went, the musicians occasionally pausing to slake their thirst before starting up again. The beat got into Tarzan’s heart, he drummed his hands on his knees and smiled. 

Then the young women got up to dance, Jane among them. Muviro, who had been quietly explaining each dance to Tarzan, leaned forward. 

“This is a special dance,” he murmured in Tarzan’s ear. “It is only for the young unwed women. No one else may join them unless they are invited.”

Tarzan nodded, watching curiously. The music was different, sounding more luscious and fluid to his ears, putting him in mind of the river. Some of the girls danced alone, then together with each other. After a time, some of them reached out for partners among the men: mostly fathers or brothers, sometimes sweethearts. Eshe held her hands out to Wasimbu, who jumped up to join her, ignoring the good-natured teasing of his companions. Kwete was taken away to dance by Ulaya, another young woman. Slowly, one by one, couples formed. Tarzan leaned towards Muviro again. 

“Why?”

Muviro smiled. “It is a chance for a young woman to show her interest in a young man. By asking him to dance, she indicates that he may court her--maybe they will even marry. He cannot ask her in this dance. It is entirely her choice.”

Tarzan looked over at Jane, who had stepped out of the line of dancers and was talking quietly with Mwana on the opposite side of the fire. She looked up and their eyes met, and Jane looked away, blushing. Tarzan bit his lip. Muviro noticed. 

“It takes courage for a young woman to show the entire tribe her interest in a man,” he said. “Usually she talks with the young man in question, first.”

Tarzan nodded. His thoughts flew over all of his interactions with Jane. He was certain that she liked him. Perhaps not as a women liked a man. He sighed. He was still wild. Could a wild man ever win a girl like Jane?

 

 

 

Author's Note: At long last, another chapter! I hope you all like it. Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought. Comments on this story are so encouraging.


	14. The Rains

**Chapter Thirteen**

 

Early one morning at the start of the month that Jane called October, Tarzan woke to the sound of rain pattering down over the eaves of the little house and knew that it was time to rejoin the pack for the winter migration. Warm in his nest on the floor, Tarzan sighed. He had been dreading this day for some time now. He did not want to leave Jane and travel far away to the mountains, where he would be continually soaked by cold rain and where the entire pack would grow thin and sad while they foraged for food that was in less abundance. He wanted to stay continue to learn about the human world. More than that, he wanted to stay near _Jane_. But he could not leave his mother and brother, especially with Kala being old and grey. She needed her sons to help her through the winter. And so Tarzan pushed back his blankets and rose in the semi-darkness, rolling his blankets up and shoving his mattress under Jane’s bed. He would take a pack with him, like he had when he went to get Jack and Alice’s box from the treehouse. He could take this blanket. Standing, Tarzan hesitated.

Jane lay curled up in her bed, snuggled down into her blankets like a mouse in its nest. Tarzan smiled at her. She was so beautiful, her lips parted in sleep, her arms tucked in under her head. Tarzan raised a hand; he wanted to run it over her orange hair, smooth it back where it tumbled over her cheek. For a moment he hesitated, then let his hand drop. He had never touched Jane while she lay in bed, because it was Improper, and he did not want to be Improper. Tarzan did everything in his power not to dishonour her in any way. He loved Jane so.

“Jane,” he said instead, bending closer to her. “Jane, wake up.”

“Mmm?”

“It’s raining,” he said.

Jane’s eyelids fluttered; she did not fully wake. “Don’t get up, stay in bed.”

Tarzan smiled, sadly. “I have to go.”

At that, Jane opened her eyes. “What, why?”

She sat up, her blankets spilling away from her. Tarzan fought the urge to take her into his arms, just this once.

“The rains are here. We will go to the mountains until they stop. I must go.”

A deep disappointment flared in Jane’s eyes. “Oh. Oh, I see. Um. Well, let’s wake Father before you do.”

She rolled out of bed and reached for her dark red dressing gown. Tarzan took it and held it for her; with a mumbled ‘thanks’ Jane belted it around her. For a moment they stood close together, not quite touching, and then Jane sidestepped around him.

“Do you have time for breakfast? I can make you something hot before you go.”

“May we have banana fritters?” Tarzan asked, following her into the kitchen. “And rice cereal?”

“Yes, of course. Are you going to take a pack with you? You know where we keep them.”

She was trying for her normal voice, but Tarzan could tell that he had made her sad. He went to her where she stood at the stove, fussing with the pots, and turned her to face him. Jane looked up at him, wide-eyed, as he stood with his hands on her shoulders.

“Jane, I will come back to you,” he said.

“I know,” Jane said softly. “I’ll miss you, that’s all. I always miss you when you go away.”

Tarzan didn’t know what to say to that. This would be the longest time he had gone away from the Porters. They had taught him to read time by the moon’s cycles, and now he knew that he would be gone almost until the month of May, when the rains stopped. Six moons. It was a long, long time to be separated from one’s mate. For a moment the desire to stay here with her overwhelmed Tarzan. He wanted to stay with her, hold her and love her and be her’s, forever.

“Jane,” he said, putting his hand on her cheek.

How to show her that he loved her? How to tell her? Tarzan stroked his thumb over her face. Jane was very close to him; her body was warm and solid beside his, her eyes meeting his with no fear, only an emotion that he didn’t have the words to name. And then Father was bustling into the room, and Jane pulled away, and the moment was past. Tarzan regretted it bitterly.

Leaving was more of a chore than he had thought it would be, for there were friends to say goodbye to, presents to be accepted and either put in the pack he was taking or onto the shelf in Jane’s room that she had given to him. Mwana gave him a thick green cloak with slits for his arms to keep him warm against the winter rains. Tarzan was grateful for it, although he knew that it would be ruined by the time the winter was over.

“You take care of yourself,” Mwana said, holding him at arm’s length. “Stay away from that creature who hurt you before.”

“I will,” Tarzan promised. “I will stay close to Akut and Mother.”

Muviro and Father each gave him a practical gift: Muviro a hunting knife, Father a length of tarpaulin, which he explained Tarzan could lie under to keep the rain off.

“You must be careful,” Muviro said to him. “The jungle is your world, yes, but you have a young lady who will be waiting for you here, and you must return to her.”

“And you still have so much to learn,” Father agreed. “You are always welcome here, John, if you decide to come back sooner.”

Tarzan looked at his two fathers and knew that they loved him. “Thank you. I will keep safe.”

Jane did not say anything to him, but helped him to clasp Mwana’s cloak and to adjust the straps of his backpack over it. When she had done, Tarzan drew her into his arms and held her tight for a long moment. He did not kiss her, though he wanted to, because of all the people who surrounded them. Kisses were private.

“Be safe,” Jane whispered at last, and Tarzan nodded, and vanished into the jungle.

*

 

A half day’s journey brought Tarzan to Kala’s side. By evening they had met Akut, and by midday the next day they had rejoined the pack. Tarzan kept to the back of the long line of walkers, hidden among the other young bulls. At night he slept beside Kala, as he always had, but Akut had taken a mate that summer and slept with her. There was a baby coming now. Tarzan tried not to be jealous. It was so easy for his brother to create a family, when Tarzan had to work so hard for his. It was also galling to see the easy affection Akut and Teeka had for each other, when he missed Jane so much it hurt. He had not realized how used to her he had grown over the months they had lived together, nor how much he enjoyed the quiet rhythm of their life together.

But there was nothing for it. Tarzan did not let himself think about the long, cold, boring months ahead. He was a Mangani again, and Mangani did not think much past their next meal. If he thought about the village, his friends there, Father, _Jane_ , he would go mad with discontent and loneliness. If he thought about the storehouse filled with food that everyone was welcome to eat from, while Tarzan foraged for grubs, he would burn with resentment. If he thought of all the things he could be learning with the humans, he would scream. It was better not to think at all.

Kala watched him with sad eyes. _You are unhappy._

_I miss her._

_I know. You could go back to her for a time._

_She is too far. I cannot leave you_.   

Kala had no reply to that. Mangani males did not leave their pack for a mate, and she did not want to lose her son.

For a week there was peace in the pack as they made their way through the forest into the mountains. The pace was lazy; Mangani did not hurry, but stopped whenever they felt like it to eat and sleep and mate. Tarzan, after the first day, shed his clothing, storing it in his pack. It was easier to be without it in the jungle, especially since the other apes were amused by his skirts and cloak and pulled at them constantly. As Tarzan was trying to not draw attention to his presence, it was better to put them away. But Kerchak noticed him anyway.

The attack came early in the day, before the pack had gotten underway after their night’s pause. Tarzan was sitting on his backpack in a tree, watching the rest of the pack moving about. Small apes tumbled about, playing together, watched over amicably by the rest of the pack. Tarzan had lost sight of Akut; presumably he and Teeka were nearby. Teeka was getting round; Tarzan wondered if he would be allowed to hold the baby when it came. He liked babies, and little apes were so sweet and funny.

Kerchak crashed through the brush at him. In a split instant, Tarzan went from lazing on the branch to running for his life. He flung himself away from the pack, catapulting upwards into the trees where the heavier Kerchak would not be able to reach him. Bellowing his rage, the king Mangani surged after him. Tarzan sprang higher, faster, Kerchak almost close enough to grab him, and if he did...

Akut came barrelling out of nowhere and smashed into Kerchak, knocking him sideways. Tarzan careened past him and swung himself safely into the higher branches. By this time the rest of the pack had scattered to safety, leaving the young bull and the old one a wide clearing in which to fight.

Kerchak stood and screamed his outrage. _Do not protect him. Let the monster fight for himself._

Akut pounded his chest and roared back. _You will not touch my brother. I will kill you if you touch him_.

This was more than defiance; it was open rebellion. Kerchak leapt at Akut, but the younger bull was ready, meeting him with flailing fists. Up above them in the trees, Tarzan watched, his heart in his throat. Only one of them would survive this. _Please, please, let it be Akut_. The two bulls pounded at each other, attacking with claws and teeth, fighting to the death while the watching pack screamed down at them. Kerchak was bigger than Akut, but Akut was younger, stronger. Just when it seemed that Kerchak had gained the upper hand, Akut seized him by the head and snapped his neck.

For a moment there was utter silence in the clearing. Akut let Kerchak’s lifeless body fall, then stood over it and screamed out his dominance and his challenge to anyone else who dared compete for the kingship. None came forward. Akut was king.

He looked around and found Tarzan gazing down at him. _Now no one will harm you._ He looked around at the pack. _No one will touch my brother, or I will kill them_.

Tarzan slid down from the tree, his heart pounding. He butted his head against Akut’s. _Thank you_.

Akut smacked his ribs and turned to be fussed over by Teeka and Kala. When the pack finally left the clearing behind, it was with Akut at their head. Tarzan followed behind him. Despite the easiness with which the pack accepted Akut’s kingship, he could scarcely believe what had happened. It was over. The constant fear of Kerchak, the uncertainty about his place in the family. With Akut king, Tarzan was in no more danger of being run out of the pack.

So why was he disappointed?

 

 

Author's Note: Sorry for the long pause in updates; I was travelling and didn't feel like writing. I'm really enjoying spinning this story, though, so I'm not going to abandon it. I hope you like the chapter! PLEASE comment and let me know what you think. I really would like to hear what you think; sometimes it feels like I'm writing into the void. Thanks for reading!


	15. One Family

**Chapter Fourteen**

 

_ My name is John Clayton _ . 

Tarzan crouched in the dirt of the deep jungle between the river and the mountain and looked at the words he had written in the dirt. The letters were clumsy, written in mud, their meaning still a little unreal to him. He chewed a little on the stick he was working with. He whispered the words to himself. 

“My name is John Clayton.”

The name conjured strange pictures in his head, of himself if he dressed as Father did; if he had short hair like Father’s. John Clayton would know how to speak well, to read and write and do sums. He would know how to be human without having to work at it. John Clayton wasn’t a stupid wild man. Tarzan put his stick to the dirt again. 

_ I am Tarzan of the Apes _ . 

That was more correct. Tarzan of the Apes could speak a little. He ran with the Mangani; his spirit came from the animals of the jungle. Tarzan of the Apes knew a little about what it meant to be human, but he did not need humanity to survive. 

Tarzan of the Apes could not have Jane Porter. John Clayton could. 

He sighed and rubbed a dirty hand over his face. Nine weeks in the jungle and he was as dirty as he had ever been, dirtier than he had been in the summer when Mwana and Father bathed him, because now the rain poured down and turned the world to mud, and mud was harder than dirt to wash away. John Clayton would not get dirty, not like this. He would not swing from vines or eat ants and grubs or shit in the bushes. He would not look at Akut with his mate and feel sick with envy. 

Raising his eyes from his names, Tarzan looked out at his pack. It was calmer now that Kerchak was dead. Quieter. He did not have to watch himself so closely. Beyond that, little had changed. Tarzan remained a freak among his pack, a deformed and hairless monstrosity. From a tender age he had understood his place among the Mangani: he would never jockey for power among the bulls or have mating rites with the females. Tarzan had always considered himself to be hideous--he was a runt compared to Akut and the other young bulls. He lacked their beautiful fur and fangs and their fierce physiques, and his genitalia, in comparison, was huge and unwieldy. When he had given it a thought, which had not been often, Tarzan had been disgusted by his body. 

But his time among the Koba had changed him. Tarzan understood now why his body looked the way it did. Father had explained that he was a perfectly formed and healthy young man, that his strength was exceptional and that his genitals were exactly how they should be, and that it was normal to grow hair upon his cheeks. 

“You are a man, John,” Father had said, and for the first time in his life, Tarzan had not been ashamed of himself. 

Jane had shown Tarzan her looking glass and let him truly see himself for the first time in his life. He had stared at himself in the polished glass for a long time, taking in the scars on his cheek and forehead and body--souvenirs of a lifetime fighting for his life--the snarled and knotted mass of pale hair that reached to his elbows, the clear grey eyes. He had strong teeth and strong, ropey muscles and not a spare bit of flesh on him.  

Jane liked him. Loved him, even. She had been sad when he left; she had asked him to come back to her--

A scream echoed through the jungle, raw and full of agony. Tarzan was on his feet and moving before it began to die away, crashing through the bracken barely a thought in his mind.  _ Mother _ . It had been his mother who screamed. 

Kala was not far from the rest of the pack, pulling herself through the dirt. There was an arrow sticking out of her back. Tarzan pulled her into his arms and held her, whimpering. 

_ Mother, Mother! Don’t go--It will be all right _ .

Kala raised her hand to her son’s head and looked him in the eyes. And then, just like that, she was gone. 

Tarzan cradled her to him, mouth open in disbelief.  _ Mother? Mother? _

A cracking sound came from the bushes not a hundred yards away. Tarzan looked up into the face of a mountain tribesman. He held a bow in one hand, arrow cocked and ready. Hunter. Killer. A red mist passed over Tarzan’s eyes as hatred and fear and grief overwhelmed him. In an instant every shred of humanity that the Porters and the Koba people had taught him was done. This man had killed his mother. 

Tarzan screamed. 

It was a scream of pure hatred, a promise of vengeance, of death. The tribesman turned and fled, crashing away through the undergrowth. Tarzan let go of Kala and stood, just as Akut and the others arrived on the scene. 

_ Mother! No!  _ Akut beat the ground with his fists and roared.  _ Where did they go? _

Tarzan beckoned.  _ This way. _

Kill one and the rest won’t stop until they’ve torn you to pieces.

He could never, afterwards, rightly say what had happened after that. The Mangani had surged after the human hunters, tearing through the jungle on vines and branches. Akut had led, or maybe it had been Tarzan, or maybe they moved as a unit. The humans shot arrows at them as they came, but none hit their targets, and the one who had killed Kala ran on ahead, splashing through a rivulet as though to keep them from tracking his scent. It was easy enough to pass over the others and make for the killer. Tarzan fell out of the trees down onto him, and the killer fell hard against the stony bank. There was a strange sound, like a coconut popping, and Tarzan, bending over the man, knew that he was dead. 

Kala was avenged. 

He stood, staring. Gone was the kind and gentle giant known and loved by Jane Porter. The man who stood over the dead killer pulsed with rage and power. He raised his eyes to meet those of the killer’s horrified friends and let out a great scream of victory. The other hunters stopped their ears. Then Tarzan leaped upwards into the trees and was gone, vanishing into the jungle. He gave no thought to the killer, or the killer’s friends and family. He was a Mangani again, and would remain senseless to the damage he had done for many long months. 

Tarzan returned to Kala’s body, where it lay in the bushes surrounded by whimpering females and babies. Akut was there, hooting in sorrow, but Tarzan flung himself down beside his slain mother and howled out his sorrow, his tears soaking into her fur.  Gone, gone. She was gone and they would never laugh together, never groom each other, never hug each other again. He had killed her killer, but it would not give Kala her life back. Gone, gone,  _ gone _ , forever. He gathered her up in his arms, rocking her, as he wept, and for a long time, no one disturbed him. But then Akut nudged him. 

_ We must go. It is not safe here anymore.  _

_ You go. _

_ Come on, little brother. Mother is dead, there is nothing more you can do _ . 

Tarzan raised his eyes, and as he did, they fell on the smooth orange stone that Kala had always carried with her, lying in the dirt where she had dropped it. He took it up and gripped it. 

_ You go. I will go to my mate. _

Akut growled.  _ I said, come on.  _

_ And I said I will go to my mate _ . 

_ I am your king. You will come with our family now _ . 

Tarzan gave his mother one last hug and laid her body down carefully in the dirt. He stood.  _ There is no reason for me to stay anymore. My mate is by the grasslands. I will go to her now.  _

_ We are your family! I killed Kerchak to protect you! _

_ I know, and I am grateful. But I am a Man, not a Mangani. I must go _ .

Akut snarled and hit him a backhand across the ribs.  _ You cannot go! _

Tarzan hit him back. _ I can! I am going! _

_ Mother is dead! You must stay here, brother. I don’t want to lose you, too. _

_ But you have a mate.  _ Tarzan swallowed against the lump in his throat.  _ You have Teeka, and the baby, and the pack. You belong here _ . 

_ So do you! _

_ No. I never belonged.  _

_ Brother- _

_ No. Please, you’ll be all right without me _ .

_ I want you to stay! _

_ But I don’t want to. _

Akut fell back as though Tarzan had hit him. He bared his fangs and growled. F _ ine. Go, then. Go take your hairless mate and leave your family behind. And don’t come back.  _

_ Brother- _

_ Leave! Go! If that’s what you want _ . Akut swiped at him, pushing him away. _ Go away and never return! _

For a long moment the brothers faced each other and the entire pack held its breath. Tarzan could yield now, promise not to leave. He could go to Akut and they could mourn together. Then Tarzan shook his head. 

_ I love you, brother. Good-bye _ . 

Akut turned away. 

Tarzan plunged into the jungle. 


	16. Reunion

**Chapter Fifteen: Reunion**

 

That winter presented the Porters with their own set of challenges. Late in November a packet of letters arrived--missives from Porter’s university in Massachusetts, inquiring as to whether he would be returning to America in the coming year, another from Jane’s Aunt Enid, Porter’s sister, suggesting that Jane might like to return for her debutante season. 

“You’ll be twenty in six months,” Aunt Enid wrote. “I can arrange your entrance into society if we start planning now. You need to consider your future.”

Father and daughter sat in the comfortable parlour of their little African home and looked at each other. 

“She’s right, you know,” Porter said half-heartedly. “A girl your age ought to be dressing up and going to parties, collecting beaux.”

“I don’t want to collect beaux,” Jane said. “I want--”

She broke off and Porter sighed. “You want John. I know.”

Jane went scarlet. “Father--”

Porter held up a hand. “Jane, do me the honor of assuming that I have eyes. I see what you two mean to each other. I know that you want to help him become human, as much as I do, and that he is a friend to you and you want to be here for him. But Jane, Enid’s right. You have your whole life ahead of you. Staying in the village and teaching John can’t be your only goal.  _ John  _ can’t be your only goal.”

Jane frowned. “But I’m happy here. I’m happy with him.”

“But will you be forever?” Porter asked, and Jane was silent. 

“Think about it,” her father continued. “I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do, but I do ask you to consider your options. I will respect whatever choice you make.”

Jane sighed, torn. She loved her life in Africa; indeed,  it was the only one she had known for most of her formative years. What would she do without Mwana and Eshe and Wasimbu to work and joke with? How could she possibly go back to the strict prosperous society in Boston after so many years of comparative ease and freedom to do as she pleased? And what about Tarzan? He had been gone for two months and Jane missed him every day. The thought of going back to Boston without him, of collecting suitors and looking to get married, filled Jane with consternation. _ I am wanting to be mates with you _ , he had said that day he took her to meet Kala.  _ Mangani mate for life _ .

All her life Jane had wondered about the man she would grow up to marry. She had always imagined him to be smart and sophisticated, a world traveler like her father, or a scholar who attended lectures and held interesting dinner parties. But now the image of a polished American gentlemen had gone from her mind. In his place was a half-naked white giant with grey eyes and tangled hair and a small smile, who in four months had gained basic fluency in two languages and who had only ever seen two other white people in his life. Tarzan, who had never considered himself human until this summer, who had been orphaned and raised by apes. Her wild man, with his cheerful affection and serious interest in the world he had missed out on for most of his life. _ I am wanting to be mates with you _ .

Tarzan had learned to talk so that he could speak with her. He had learned to spin and weave and to herd goats and harvest food. He had learned to read and write and think like a human. He was still almost entirely wild, but he had made such strides since their first meeting. Jane knew that if she told him that they could not marry, he would accept it and leave her alone. But she could not imagine living her life without him. 

The question of what was her future plagued Jane for days. Porter did not push her; he did not want Jane to go back to America anymore than she did. As Christmas neared, Jane found herself pouring out her heart to Mwana. The older woman listened, nodding every so often. 

“It is a puzzle,” she said when Jane had finished. “Of course you want to be with Tarzan. He was your project all summer.”

“Hardly a project!” Jane protested.

“But he was,” Mwana said gently. “You care for him, Janey, but you do it as a mother with a child.”

“Not always,” Jane said, thinking of all the times she had embraced Tarzan and felt her blood quicken, her body tighten, and remembering all the nights when she had let her deepest fantasies fly through her brain.

“But generally,” Mwana replied. “The two of you are not quite equals yet. Tarzan wants to be a man and he is learning how to do it, but he says himself that he is not yet able to care for a mate.”

Jane looked down at her hands, frowning. “So you think I should stop fantasizing?”

“I didn’t say that.” Mwana gave her an exasperated look. “I mean that two people cannot build a life together if one has power over the other. Man and wife must complement the other; they must meet on equal grounds. Let Tarzan become a man and learn to love him as a woman loves a man. If your heart wants him and the fates will it, then you and he will find a way.”

Jane nodded. It made sense, what Mwana said. Jane had always imagined that she would be able to talk with her husband the way her parents had, debating news and politics and science and literature. Many men did not care for their wives to be intelligent creatures--Heaven knew that her teachers at the school in Boma had instilled the social graces of upper class ladies into Jane, and while a certain amount of knowledge was expected, braininess was not. She knew how to host a party, how to look beautiful and to move gracefully and all the other so-called womanly arts. And she was glad to know them. Jane had never resented being a woman. But she wanted more than what Western society expected of ladies of her station. She wanted adventure, and intellect, and to be an equal partner. 

“Give me until June to make up my mind,” she said to Porter over dinner. “I’m not ready to go back to the States yet. Let me just see what happens.”

Porter nodded, relieved. “I’ll write to Enid and tell her. Maybe you ought to, as well. And remind her that if worse comes to worst, we can send you husband hunting in Egypt or India.”

“Father!” 

Porter grinned. “Well, I can’t very well tell her you’re being courted by a feral Englishman who is currently migrating with the great apes, now, can I?”

Jane glared and then, seeing the mischief in his eyes, gave a tiny smile. “He’s not courting me yet.”

“Good,” said Porter. “You’ve both got a lot of growing to do before anymore romance gets in the way.”

Christmas came and went, largely unnoticed in the village, expect by Muviro, who took an interest in foreign customs. Along with a couple of the men, he and the Porters rowed up the Little River to the mission at Bonne Terre Township to celebrate, then back to the village. In January, a Teke man passing through brought a message that a large box had arrived for Professor Porter and was being held at Boma. 

“That’ll be Enid’s Christmas box,” Porter said. “I’d best go down and get it.”

Jane was delighted. It wasn’t unusual for presents from America to be delayed, and Aunt Enid always sent marvelous Christmas boxes. Porter set off two days later, canoeing down the Little River to where it met the Congo, where they would catch a river boat. He would be gone ten days. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come along?” he asked before setting out.

“Positive,” Jane said. “I’ve got plenty of work to do on my book. Stay safe and hurry back.”

She did not tell him that Tarzan had been in her thoughts all day or about the sense of worry that plagued her, the sense that she needed to stay in the village. It was a vague sensation, but enough to keep her here with her village rather than out on the choppy winter river.

For the next week, Jane had the run of the house to herself. It was nice to set her own hours, to not have her father calling her to get up in the morning, to be able to do the cleaning and tidying as she wished. The rain was almost incessant, hammering down over the eves of the little house and turning the track through the village into a swampy morass so that most folk stayed at home, snug and dry. She baked bread every other day and spent the time between chores working on her book. The pictures were coming along nicely, though it would be nice when the dry season came and she could go out into the jungle--Tarzan had promised to take her to observe more animals when he came back. Her notes were as full as she could make them without further field work, and Jane spent whole days turning them into neat essays. She was under no illusions about the difficulty of publishing the book: even with her father’s name to open doors, she was a woman and the book would be marketed towards women and children. Well, let it be. Jane would make sure that it was the most correct and interesting book on Congolese animals any woman or child could want to read. 

Two days before Porter’s scheduled return, the village held a dance in the hall. Jane put on her boots and raincoat and splashed through the mud up to the hall, carrying a lantern and a tray of steaming banana fritters kept warm and dry under a banana leaf. Making them had turned her thoughts to Tarzan--never a difficult feat, admittedly; he was always close by in her mind--and she offered up a prayer for his safe return.  _ At least let him be warm and happy, wherever he is _ . 

The revels started at sundown, the men beginning to pound on their great drums. There was laughter and dancing and food, and Jane joined the rest of the women in their dances. It was good to move so freely, to move to the beat of the drums. It was something she would never be able to do in America, and for a moment the overwhelming defiance of staying put in Africa forever filled Jane. Well then. Maybe that was her answer. 

Then the women began to bring their men into the dance, and Jane retired to the far end of the hall to watch. Mwana danced with her husband, Kolo; there was Kwete with Ulaiya, who had taken a shine to him; there were Eshe and Wasimbu, with eyes only for each other. Jane smiled and tried not to feel lonely. If only Tarzan were here--John, she needed to learn to call him John--she would take his hand and lead him in the dance. She would show him that she cared for him far beyond simple friendship, even if he  _ was _ wild and uncouth. Who cared, if they loved each other?

_ You would, if he turns out to be a waster _ , a snickery little voice inside her whispered, and Jane sighed. Let him learn to be a man, and see what kind of man he is, she reminded herself. Then decide if you can be together. 

Eshe and Wasimbu walked her back to the house later, ostensibly to make sure that Jane made it home in safety. Jane carried her lantern and the empty tray and waved to them as they walked back up the village path. She wondered, grinning to herself, how long it would take them to arrive at their own homes. 

Inside, Jane moved through the house, double-checking that the window latches were fastened and shutting the doors behind her. She finally made her way into the kitchen, setting the lantern on the table. The stove had cooled, but it was still warm enough to make one final cup of tea before bed. Jane reached for the tea jar, spooning leaves into a strainer and setting it into a mug. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck, as though someone were watching.  She stilled, listening. Someone was breathing in the far side of the room, harsh and ragged. Jane turned, heart racing. A figure sat curled in a chair in the corner, just out of the lamplight, watching her. Jane leaped back against the worktop, a scream on her lips, even as she realized who it was. 

“Tarzan!” she shrieked, both elated and shaking from the surprise. “What are you doing? You frightened me!”

“I am sorry, Jane,” Tarzan whispered, and something about his voice made her stop and look closer. 

He was huddled in the chair, slumped into himself, his hair draggled across his face. His hands dangled between his knees. Jane stepped closer and saw that his face was tearstained, his eyes swollen with crying. There were tears slipping down his face. 

“What is it-what happened? Tarzan?” she came closer and knelt down before him, reaching to take his face in her hands. “What’s wrong?”

“Jane,” he whispered, tears spilling from his eyes. “My mother is killed.”

All of the air left Jane’s lungs; she gaped at him, horrified. “Not Kala! Oh, Tarzan, no!”

He nodded, sucking in a gasping breath. “A hunter-a hunter-he killed-he  _ killed _ -”

“Oh my God.” Jane pulled him to her, clasping him as close to her body as she could, and felt his arms come about her. He gave a low cry and burst into fresh sobs, pressing his face into her breast. “Oh God, Tarzan, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

His arms were tight about her, clinging to her; Jane held onto him and rocked him as he wept. For a long time she stood, rubbing his back and whispering soothing nothings. It took a long time for him to stop crying, but eventually the tears ceased, and he lay limp in her arms, shaking. Jane kissed the top of his head and held him back from her. 

“Look at me, Tarzan. Here.” Jane took her handkerchief out of her pocket and patted his eyes, wiping away the remaining tears. He made a garbled sound and took it from her, wiping it over his eyes and nose. 

“Handkerchief,” he whispered, and Jane suppressed a helpless giggle.

“Can you tell me what happened?” she asked, running her hands over his shoulders. 

Tarzan shrugged. “There was a hunter. He killed my Kala. With a-” he made the gesture for a bow and arrow. “It was not clean. She did not die right away. I-I-I held her until…”

He broke off and put his face in his hands. Jane put her arms around him again. He shook against her, and clung onto her again. 

“Jane,” he whispered. “Jane.”

“I’ve got you,” she said. “I’ve got you; I’m right here. You go ahead and cry, love; I’ve got you.”

She put her hand up and cradled his head, holding him to her breast, trying to convey warmth and safety. After a long time, Tarzanraised his eyes to her. 

“I-I-” he gasped. “I am all alone, I have no-I have-”

“No,” Jane said, putting her hand on his cheek. “No, you are not alone.  _ You are not alone _ . I  _ love  _ you, Tarzan.”

He hiccupped. For a moment there was silence between them as the words rang out. Tarzan looked at her with big eyes, and Jane felt herself blush. 

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” she asked. 

He looked startled. “No hungry. I am no.”

“I know, but you need to eat,” Jane said softly. “I know you don’t want to, I know it feels like you’ll never be hungry again, but I promise it will help.”

She stepped back from him; his hands still on her waist as she turned towards the cabinet and began to pull eggs and flour out of it. An omelette, Jane thought, something soft and hot and easy to swallow. It was easy to beat eggs and add salt and flour to the mix, dumping it into the hot frying pan. Tarzan watched, one hand holding a fold of her skirt as she worked. When Jane set the plate before him, he looked up at her with wet eyes. 

“I am not hungry,” he whispered. 

“Eat it anyway,” Jane said. “After three bites, you’ll feel better. I promise.”

He took the fork she handed him and speared the omelette. Jane stood over him, watching as he ate. She put one hand on his shoulder, murmuring encouragement. In moments, the omelette was gone. 

“There,” Jane said. “That’s good.”

“Yes,” Tarzan whispered. “Thanks you. Thank you.”

Jane brushed his hair again. “You’re welcome. Would you like some tea?”

He shook his head, and turned to wrap his arms about her waist. Jane dropped a kiss on his head and held him. 

“My poor friend,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Tarzan.”

“I hurt,” he whispered. “Jane, it hurts me. I feel-” he broke off, shaking his head. He did not have the words to tell her how he felt. There was an old rag hanging over the edge of the worktop; he reached for it. “I feel-” and he ripped it in half. 

“I understand,” Jane said. “I felt the same way when my mother died.”

“Your mother is killed?”

“No, she was sick,” Jane said. “She was sick for a long time, but I felt so broken when she died, like something inside me had died, too.”

Tarzan wiped his eyes on the ruined cloth. “Broken. Yes. I broken. I am.”

Jane studied him. In the dim lamplight his eyes were swollen, his nose red. Beyond that, he was dirty from long days in the jungle, and there was a long scratch across his body, stretching from his underarm to his navel. She touched it with light fingers. 

“What happened here?”

Tarzan shook his head and didn’t answer. Jane poured warm water from the kettle into a basin and wet a cloth. She prodded him to sit upright and cleaned the scratch, smoothing the cloth across his skin. He listed under her hands, tremors passing through him, tears slipping soundless down his cheeks. Jane rinsed the cloth, wringing it out, and smoothed it over his face. 

“Come on, darling, it’s time for bed,” she said. “You look exhausted.”

“What is?” he asked. 

“Tired,” Jane said. “You are very, very tired. Come on, rest will do you good.”

“No,” he said, wearily, getting up to follow her. “I am never good again, never, never, never.”

Jane put her arm about his waist. “Not today, and not tomorrow, and not even next week, but someday you will feel whole again. I promise.”

She wished that her father were there. Somehow she felt out of her depth, talking to Tarzan about grief. Father was much wiser about these matters. Jane could only hope that she was helping.

Taking her lantern in hand and leaving the washing up for tomorrow, Jane led Tarzan out of the kitchen to her bedroom. She set the lantern on her table and turned towards the bed, stripping the blankets back. Tarzan stood in the doorway, swaying slightly as exhaustion overcame him. Jane took his hand and led him to the bed. 

“There, lie down,” she said. 

Tarzan hesitated. “But...not proper?”

Jane shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now, not when you’re grieving. Lie down.”

He did not protest, but sank down onto the mattress, laying himself sideways against the pillows. He gave a soft sigh, as of relief. Jane went behind her little screen and changed into her nightgown, splashing water from the basin on her face and cleaning her teeth. When she came out again, Tarzan lay curled up on her pillows, watching her with sad sleepy eyes. 

“You are good,” he said to her. “I love you.”

Jane smiled, her heart swelling. She put out the lantern and climbed into bed beside him, and wrapped her arms about his long lithe body. John turned himself into her embrace, pressing close to her. He relaxed in her arms and lay still, heavy and warm, bending his knees under hers to keep his feet on the bed. Jane smoothed back his tangled hair and kissed his cheek. 

“It’s alright now, you can sleep. It’s all right, John, I’ve got you.”

It was warm and soft under the blankets together, with Tarzan’s head tucked beneath Jane’s chin, their arms warm and loose around each other, their feet and legs touching. Jane felt the fight go out of him, even as the aftershock of tears still shuddered through him. She did not stop rubbing his back until, at last, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and the world fell away from him. He slept. 

Lying there in the quiet darkness, Jane felt the world around her stretch and then shrink to nothing but her bed, her body, and the man lying asleep in her arms. Her wild man, who would never hurt her, whose life was as bound up in hers as hers was in his. Her Tarzan. Her John. Hers.  _ I am irrevocably tied to this man _ , Jane realized. There would be no going back from him now.

 

Author's Note: Happy New Year and welcome back! I hope you are all still reading and enjoying this story. I meant to update over the holidays, but I was so tired and in such need of a mental break (I'm a high school teacher) that I just didn't write anything at all. Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think!


	17. The String

**Chapter Sixteen: The String**

 

In the morning, Jane found herself curled on her mattress, Tarzan’s arm loose and warm around her. They had shifted positions in the night, and Jane found herself wedged in against his side, resting her cheek on his upper arm. Early morning light filtered through her curtains and the sound of rain pouring down on the roof muffled the song of jungle birds. This was nice, Jane mused, only half-awake. Then her next thought followed, what is he doing in my bed? And then the previous night’s events came flooding back to her, and she rolled over. 

In the pale morning light, Tarzan’s face was peaceful. The swelling around his eyes had gone down, but there were deep circles under them. There would be more tears today, Jane knew, when he awoke and remembered his loss. She sighed. Poor Tarzan, and poor Kala, to be killed in such a way. She knew that there were tribes in the mountains who hunted the Mangani, but the thought of the gentle old ape’s murder filled her with rage. Because it  _ was _ a murder. Kala had been more than just an animal, even to Jane, who had only met her twice. Tarzan was going to be devastated for a long time, maybe the rest of his life. 

Best to let him sleep for now. Gingerly, Jane eased herself out of bed, careful not to wake him, and made her way out onto the veranda and down to the outhouse. Rain thundered down over the village, filling the rain barrels; at least she wouldn’t have to go up to the well. And Mwana and Eshe were coming over later to bake--maybe they would be able to help comfort him. 

Back in the kitchen, Jane set the kettle to boil and stirred up the stove. Tea. Something hot, to ease the pain and sorrow, was what he needed when he awoke. Jane remembered the hundreds of cups pressed on her by worried aunties in the days following her own mother’s death. They had tried to fill her with food, as though eating would fill the terrible hole that Diana Porter’s death had torn in her little daughter’s life. Jane did not remember seeing her father much in those first days; he had cloistered himself away, unable or unwilling to let her see him grieve. She could not imagine her father sobbing in someone’s arms the way Tarzan had wept in hers last night. But Tarzan was different; he had none of the silly mores against tears that American men had. Let him cry. Better out than in, Jane’s grandmother had said, and it was advice she lived by. That and breakfast. Jane set a pot of water to heat. She would make Tarzan rice cereal, and force him to eat it if need be. 

The soft pad of footsteps alerted her to his presence. Jane looked up as he walked into the kitchen. 

“Good morning,” she said. “How do you feel?”

Tarzan shrugged. There were not words for how he felt, and so he said nothing. He went to Jane and rested his cheek against her head, leaning heavily against her. It felt good to be so close to her; waking up in her bed had been such a relief that he had lain there for a while, warm and safe and sad. Jane put her arms around him and held him tight for a long moment. 

“I’m making breakfast. Why don’t you go and wash up?”

“I am not hungry,” he whispered. 

“I know,” Jane said. “But you need to eat all the same.”

Tarzan shrugged again, and went through to the outhouse. It was cool and humid outside; the scent of the jungle released by the pouring rain. Tarzan washed his face and hands and then stood still on the porch, eyes closed, breathing in the heavy air. 

It had taken him three days to return to Jane, and the rain had been incessant, merciless, as though the world were crying for Kala. For three days he had barely slept, and he couldn’t remember whether or not he had eaten. Mother was dead, and he had made Akut hate him. His family was gone and he could never go back. For a moment, grief so heavy that he couldn’t breathe overwhelmed Tarzan. He sank down on the veranda beside the kitchen door and drew his knees to his chest, shaking. 

Jane came out and sat down beside him, holding two bowls in her hands. 

“Here,” she said, holding one out to him, and because she was Jane and he loved her, Tarzan took it and sipped at the rice cereal within. Jane rubbed his arm. “That’s good.”

Tarzan put the bowl down and held his arms out to her. Jane was light and small; he lifted her to his other side, where she too could lean against the wall. He did not want to talk, and he did not want her to go away. Jane gave him a surprised look, but settled in beside him and looped her arm through his. 

Jane folded her legs and looked at him. “What happened, Tarzan?”

He shook his head. What was there to talk about? Mother was dead. His Kala, who was the only person who had ever cared about Tarzan. He would have been killed so many times over had it not been for her and Akut. All those times that Kerchak had lost his temper and attacked him, all the times that Tarzan had been injured or ill and his mother had been there to help him heal--she was the only reason that he was alive. And now she was gone, struck down, _ killed _ , and he had defied Akut and had no more place among the Mangani. He pressed his face into his knees, wishing that the tears would stop, wishing that he could breathe, that he could go back to yesterday and kill the hunter  _ before _ he shot at Kala, before he took her life from her. 

Jane sat beside him in silence, a warm and comforting presence. He was so glad that she was there. It had been so good to lie in her arms last night. Even through the horror of losing his mother, he had recognized the tenderness Jane was showing him, and his gratitude for it almost overwhelmed him. 

“Where is Father?” he asked after a while, realizing that he had not seen Porter since his return. How had he not noticed before?

“In Boma,” Jane replied, “though he’ll be home tomorrow, I think.”

When he didn’t reply, Jane pressed on. 

“My aunt Enid sent us a Christmas box, with presents in it, and he had to go collect it. She sends one every year, you know. I think she likes to feel like she’s taking care of us, even though she’s so far away. She always sends me fabric to make clothes with, and bundles of magazines to read. She wants me to go back to America,” she added without thinking, and stopped as Tarzan turned his head to look at her. 

“You will go back?”

“I don’t think so. No,” Jane said. “Not now that--” She broke off, flustered. None of the stories she had ever read had taught her how to speak with a man thus.

Tarzan shifted, turning himself so that he faced her. “I cannot go back into the jungle. Akut says go away forever. I will stay with you now, if you want me.”

“Of course I want you to stay with us! You belong with people-”

Tarzan put his fingers to her lips to stop the torrent of words. “No. I will stay with  _ you _ now, Jane. I will learn to be a man and look after you as a man looks after his mate. I will learn to be John Clayton and to spin and weave and work, and I will love you always, will stay with you always. If you want me.”

The words opened a great font of longing in Jane, warm and safe and a little frightening. “I want you, Tarzan. John. I want you to stay and be my mate.”

A little light came back into his eyes, a little joy. His lips quirked into a small smile. “Good. Thanks you.”

Jane took his hands in hers and kissed them, smiling. For a while they didn’t say anything, but sat together hand in hand, foreheads resting together.  

“Father may have something to say about this,” Jane said after a while. “He’ll say we are too young.”

Tarzan’s face was very serious. “I must learn to be a man, first. I must show him.”

Jane bit her lip. “There’s this thing, in the West, that we call courtship: it’s when a young man works to show the girl he loves that he can be a good husband. They spend time together and learn about each other, and after a few months of this, maybe a year, if she likes him they announce their engagement. We can do that.”

Tarzan nodded. “I am courtship you.”

“Yes,” Jane said. “But you need to take the time to grieve, first. Don’t think about me right now and don’t make any major decisions. That means choices.”

Tarzan thought about his mother’s death, his fight with Akut, his choice to leave his Mangani family for the humans. He sighed. “I maked a choice. I am Man, now. No more Mangani.”

They fell silent, and into that silence came the sound of voices: Mwana calling out to Jane as she came into the Porter’s little house. Jane rose and went to her, and Tarzan--John--wrapped his arms around his knees. In the midst of the horror of losing his family, a bright spark flickered. Jane wanted him. He could stay with her. 

Mwana came out, her hands raised, palm upwards. “Tarzan,” she said, her voice gentle, “My sorrow for your loss.”

It was enough to set Tarzan off again; he buried his face in his hands and Mwana came to embrace him, holding him tight, like a mother. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur. They did not let him sit about and mope, but instead gave him tasks to help. He filled the largest pots with water from the rain barrels and set them to heat so that he could have a proper bath. It took Tarzan a long time to scrub away the jungle dirt and then he spent a long time sitting in the hot water, looking out at the pouring rain towards the eves of the jungle. When he was clean, Tarzan--John--tied his skirts back on and donned the cloak Mwana had given him, both only mildly soiled from their long sojourn in his pack. He twitched the long snarls of his hair and sighed. Not yet. 

Jane kept him plied with food and hot tea, only some of which he managed to partake of. 

“You’ve gotten thin,” she said, eying him. 

“It is winter,” he replied, shrugging. He had told her that wintertime was when Mangani became thin and sad. It was normal for any weight he gained in the summer months to fade away when the rains came. 

In the afternoon Chief Muviro came to the house, having heard from Mwana of the tragedy Tarzan experienced. He paused for a while in the parlor to speak with Jane, then sought out the wild man.

Tarzan had retreated to the back porch again and sat huddled in his green cloak, clutching Kala’s polished orange stone in one hand. The chief settled down on the porch beside him and did not speak at first. After a while, Tarzan turned his eyes to him. 

“Janey told me that you have left the jungle,” Muviro said, his voice gentle. “Is that true?”

Tarzan nodded. 

“Why?”

Tarzan swallowed. “My mother is killed. My brother, he says if I do not stay with the pack, I go away forever.”

“And you chose Jane?”

Tarzan nodded. Muviro reached out and put a hand on his hair, stroking it a little. 

“It was a hard choice,” he said. “And an unfair one to have to make when you are hurting.”

“Yes.”

They sat like that for some time, Tarzan and his Koba father. Tarzan looked at the orange stone. Kala had often given it to him to hold, when he was a little ape in need of comfort. She had given it to Akut, too, though Akut had been a normal Mangani child and so not as often in need of comfort and reassurance as Tarzan. And now he had lost them both. 

“I must be  a man now,” Tarzan whispered, not looking at Muviro. “No more Mangani.”

Muviro gave him a small smile. “You will always be both, Tarzan. You cast two shadows. One is a man, the other an animal. You must not deny either if you wish to remain whole.”

Tarzan shook his head. “I must be a man if I want to be Jane’s mate.”

Muviro looked on him with pity. “You must not lose yourself. Do not make decisions in haste and sorrow, my son.”

Tarzan shrugged. It seemed that the choice had been made for him. 

 

*

That night he slept in Jane’s arms again, curled up in her bed while the incessant winter rain poured down onto the roof above them. His sleep was deep and dreamless, for Tarzan had barely stopped to rest in the days it had taken him to return to the village, but Jane lay awake for a long time, holding him close. Porter would be back the next day, unless he had been delayed somehow, and tomorrow night John would sleep on his mattress on her floor. She pressed her face into his shoulder. There was nothing dishonorable about sleeping beside him, nothing that felt at all wrong. He had not tried to make love to her, but held her close for comfort. Since her aunt’s letter, Jane had wrestled with herself over what her future held. Now she knew that her life was intertwined with Tarzan’s, and that when eventually she returned to America, it would be with him at her side. In his sleep, Tarzan sighed and shifted. His body was warm stone in Jane’s arms; he fit against her perfectly.  _ Learn to love him as a woman loves a man _ , Mwana had said. Well. She was halfway there. 

*

Mid-morning, the mournful sound of a riverboat’s whistle alerted Jane to Porter’s return. She put on her boots and raincoat and looked in at Tarzan, sitting at the kitchen table peeling yams for lunch. 

“Would you like to come meet Father with me?” He shook his head. “I’ll be back soon, then.”

In a way Jane was glad that he was staying behind. She anticipated the conversation she was about to have to be difficult. 

Porter was just disembarking the riverboat when she reached the landing area. Two Teka porters were heaving Aunt Enid’s Christmas box onto the muddy shore. 

“We will return in two days,” the captain was saying, and Jane understood the boat to be continuing on to Bonne Terre Township before looping back down the Little River. It would pick up any letters they wanted posted then. 

“Very good, thank you,” Porter said. “Jane, dear! How are you?”

“Father,” Jane said, very serious. “Tarzan came back. His mother has been killed.”

Porter blinked, startled. “Oh, that’s too bad. Poor boy. How is he?”

“Bad,” Jane said. “He’s slept a great deal since coming back.”

“When did he arrive?”

“The day before yesterday. He says he’s going to stay with me now.”

Porter looked surprised. “Well, of course he’s going to stay with us--”

Jane held up her hand. “No. He’s going to stay with  _ me _ .”

Understanding flashed into Porter’s eyes. “I see. Are you sure?”

“Yes. I love him, Father. It’s...it’s like  _ Jane Eyre _ , when Rochester says there’s a string tying his rib to Jane’s and that if anyone pulls too hard, both will suffer. It’s like that with Tar-with John and me. We’re linked. We have been since the beginning, only I couldn’t see it.”

Porter rubbed a hand over his mouth and looked at her with sad, fond eyes. “My little girl,” he murmured. “It won’t be easy, you know. He has a long way to go before he’s ready to marry you.”

“We know that. I told him about courtship.” Jane met Porter’s eyes. “I’m not asking for permission, you know.”

Porter gave a gusting laugh and put his arm about her. “I know. You’re so like your mother. If this is what you want, you’ll have it. Come on. Let’s go to him.”

They found Tarzan still in the kitchen. Having finished peeling the yams, he had set them in a pot of water to parboil and was sitting at the table, looking at his hands. He stood as Porter came into the room. Porter said nothing, but crossed to him and took him into his arms, holding him tight. 

“I’m sorry, John,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Father,” John whispered, and clung. 

Later, the two men sat alone in the parlor, the door shut, while Jane banged pans about in the kitchen to give them a sense of privacy. 

“Jane tells me that you and she will be court each other now,” Porter said and Tarzan nodded. “All right. But you must understand how very serious such a thing is. You cannot assume that just because you two like each other, this will end in marriage. Do you understand?”

“Yes. If Jane does not like me, I go away.”

“You need to have a plan, John. If Jane does not want you after all, what are you going to do?”

John twisted Kala’s stone between his hands. “I cannot go back to the jungle. I will stay here with the village. I will build a little house and keep goats and sheep. I will spin and weave cloth and I will grow food to eat.”

“And that is all?”

“Yes. I cannot be a Mangani anymore. I will be a man.”

“All right.”

Porter gazed at John, taking in the weary eyes, the handsome face thinned out by months of hunger. His heart ached for the young man’s loss, but it was also full of respect and admiration. Somehow he knew that John would make good on his word, that he would become a man, and a good man at that. 

Still, there was the future to think of, and Jane. That night, alone in his room, Porter wrote the letter he had been meaning to write since the previous summer, addressed to the British Colonial Office in Freetown. When the riverboat passed by the village on its way back to Boma, he sent it off. Now the only thing to do was wait and see.

 

Author's Note: Phew! A long one! I've been really encouraged by the comments I've received lately, and I hope that if you've read this far, you'll indulge me by letting me know what you think of the chapter. The end of this particular story is in sight, and if there's enough interest, I've got a follow-up in the works. Thanks for reading!


	18. Sorrow

**Chapter Seventeen: Sorrow**

The days passed swiftly, a blur for Tarzan. He laboured under a heavy cloud of grief and guilt, missing his mother and brother more than he had believed it was possible. As the days went by, he worked at small tasks around the house: peeling vegetables for Jane, or cleaning fish, or tidying up after meals. When he had been healing, Tarzan had never paid attention to how much time Jane spent in the kitchen preparing meals; now he spent much of his day there, helping to cook and bake. He liked chopping vegetables and kneading bread. It gave him pleasure to help provide his new family with meals, even if he didn’t have much appetite to eat himself. Jane worried about that--he could see it in her eyes--but neither she nor Father forced him to finish his meals when he could not. Funny, how he had longed for their storehouse of food when in the jungle, and now he could hardly eat from sorrow. 

At night he lay on his straw mattress on Jane’s floor, wrapped up tight in a colorful patterned blanket. He wished that he could lie in her arms again. He had been so tired those first two nights that he hadn’t been able to really appreciate being so close to her in such a safe and relaxed way. Jane had given him to understand that he wouldn’t mention it to Father, and so Tarzan had remained close-lipped. It was not secret; it was private. He understood the difference now. Most nights now they read together, Jane reading aloud from one of her books or from a magazine from the bundle that Aunt Enid had sent from America. Tarzan liked to listen to her voice as he fell asleep, narrating stories of adventure and romance that he could barely understand. 

Everyone was gentle with him during that time.  There were allowances to be made for Tarzan’s grief, and for the first week no one pressed him to do anything but eat. It was a strange time, lost in a haze of sorrow and exhaustion. Tarzan had never realized how tiring it was to grieve. But after a time, Father and Mwana and Chief Muviro stepped in and began to organize his day, and Tarzan found solace in the routines they created for him. Lessons with Father were in the morning: lessons in speaking English, in reading and writing, in Western manners and deportment. There were mathematical games to be played, which involved numbers, and which interested and annoyed Tarzan in equal parts. Then there was the time he spent with Jane in preparing meals, when he related to her what he was learning and they discussed it. Then up to the village hall, where Muviro gave him lessons in speaking Lingala, in the spoken stories of their people, in African manners and deportment. Tarzan had always paid attention to lessons in the past, but now that he had decided to be a man, he was even more attentive, with the result of total mental exhaustion in the evenings. In a way Tarzan preferred this; fatigue made it easier for him to fall asleep at night, before regret and sorrow and utter, desperate homesickness made itself known. 

Because nighttime was the worst time of day those first few months. During the day he could work himself into a stupor, but night time was when Tarzan lay alone with his thoughts, when memories drifted to the surface from the deep hole he shoved them into during the day. Kala’s death scream. Her hand on his hair going slack as she died. The hunter’s terrified eyes right before Tarzan fell on him. That awful sound like a coconut popping. Akut’s anger at Tarzan’s desertion. At night the memories rose up and threatened to overwhelm him so that he could scarcely keep from crying out at the pain. 

“John,” Jane whispered one night, slipping out of her bed. “Tell me. Come on.”

She lay down beside him on his straw mattress and put her arms around him. Tarzan shifted so that he could lean his head against hers. 

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he whispered. 

“You didn’t. It’s all right to cry.”

Tarzan slid an arm around her, grateful to hold her close. “I am having bad remembers.”

“Bad memories? About Kala?”

Tarzan nodded. “I miss her. I thinked I would get better, but I am still hurting. I want my m-mother.”

Jane squeezed him. “‘Course you do. She was your mama. Of course you’re going to miss her.”

“Mangani don’t feel sad about dying for very long,” Tarzan whispered. “Death happens so much, they just...don’t feel sad for long. But I feel--I feel broken, always broken.”

Jane was silent for a long moment, thinking. “I suppose,” she said at last, “it’s because you’re human, not an ape. You have higher emotions than they do, so you feel things more. It’s what makes you human.”

Tarzan sighed and wiped his eyes. “I don’t like it. It hurts me.”

Jane was silent for a long moment. “Do you think,” she said tentatively, “that you could make things right with Akut?”

Oh, how he wished it was possible. Tarzan longed for his brother, who had always played with and protected him. But Akut was king now and Tarzan had defied him, deserted him. The punishment for desertion was high; if Akut let him live, he would probably never be able to leave the pack again. No. He could not go back. 

Tarzan shook his head. “I am no more in the family. I cannot go back.” For a moment his throat closed. “I wish...I am glad to come back and be with you. But I wish I had not made Akut hate me.”

Jane squeezed him again. “I know. I’m so sorry.” 

For a while they lay in silence, listening to the rain falling all around them. Tarzan wept a little, silently; Jane didn’t mind. She brushed his face with the edge of the blanket. “Hush now, my dear. Shall I tell you a story?”

Tarzan nodded; they both shifted around a bit to get comfortable and he tucked the edge of his blanket around her so that she would not get cold. A lock of hair had fallen across Jane’s cheek and he smoothed it back. Jane smiled. 

“Where I come from in America, near Boston, it snows badly in the winter. It’s so cold you think your face is going to fall off, and white flakes come out of the air and cover the ground until you have to squish and flounder your way through it to get anywhere…”

He fell asleep like that, curled into the girl he loved, and though the pain did not cease, he felt a little better. 

 

And so the winter passed, the short wet days slowly growing longer, drier. Tarzan spun and wove, his work growing fine with practice. He baked and cleaned and carried water. He learned to shoot with a bow, to wrestle, to use a spear to protect his tribe. Slowly, slowly, he grew more human, and even more slowly the pain of losing his ape family began to dwindle. And then, as winter turned gradually to spring, everything changed again. 

 

Author's Note: Sorry for the long pause between updates; I've been ill and a little overwhelmed with lesson planning. If you've read this far and enjoyed it, please leave me a comment and let me know so that I can recharge enough to keep writing. Thanks!


	19. Love Token

**Chapter Eighteen: Love Token**

 

Mr. Frederick Cecil poured himself a slug of whiskey and considered the letter before him. It was dated several months previously, late January, from Professor Archimedes Q. Porter of Harvard University, who was currently stationed somewhere in the depths of the Congo basin--a fact which made the length of time since the letter’s arrival sensible. It told an extraordinary story. The professor claimed to have found a young Englishman living wild in the jungle, and that that Englishman was none other than the child of Jack and Alice Clayton, who had vanished without trace more than twenty years ago.

It was absurd, it was impossible, it was a sick joke. And yet something inside of Cecil hoped beyond hope that it was true.

For twenty years, the mystery of what had happened to the Claytons had haunted their friends and families. For twenty years, Frederick Cecil had mourned his oldest and dearest friend, who had been meant to join him at the Colonial Office in Freetown. And he wasn’t the only one. Poor old Greystoke, back in England, was the last of his family--the title would die with him--and Cecil knew that the Rutherfords still mourned Alice. All this time, they had assumed that Jack and Alice had been lost at sea. And now here was a letter from an eminent scientist and explorer, claiming that not only had they survived in the wild for some time, but that they had had a son. Cecil drank his whiskey in one go and looked down at the letter again.

 _He is a tall, healthy, and active young man, and has a keen intelligence and innate grace_ , Porter wrote. _His hair is pale blond and his eyes are grey. He brought out of the jungle with him a footlocker containing books and small household objects, and Jack Clayton’s diary. He did not understand the significance of this at the time, though he is beginning to accept that he had a human family once_.

Cecil passed a hand over his face. A child, John, who was almost a man now, and had spent the entirety of his life running wild in the Congolese rainforest. Jack and Alice’s child. According to Porter, the diary contained a baby’s handprint. Perhaps they had an expert in fingerprints who could confirm the claim? Or perhaps there was someone at the Colonial Office who had known the Claytons, and would care to investigate? Porter felt that the boy’s family, if there were any left, should know of his existence. Indeed they should, but Cecil was not going to spring the lad on them unawares, and without proof that he was who they claimed he was. He was not going to inflict any more pain on Greystoke, on the Rutherfords. Better that he settle the question for himself first, before he involve them. He could take Tennington; the younger man was an expert on the new science of fingerprinting, and besides, he was young and always up for an adventure. Cecil would settle this himself.

Mind made up, Cecil pressed the bell to ring for his secretary.

“Fetch me Tennington, please, and make arrangements for two to sail to Boma.”

 

*

Tarzan lifted a board, sliding it flush against the rest and putting a nail to it, hammered it into place. At the far end of the floor, Wasimbu did the same. After a few moments both young men sat back and reached for the next board. They were almost finished with this, the foundation floorboards of Wasimbu’s new house.

With Kwete, Kolo, Usy and Muviro, they had laid the frames for the foundation over the past several days. Wasimbu had spent the winter carving and levelling the boards; as the son of the chief, it was essential that he provide his sweetheart with the finest house he was capable of building, one that kept out the wind and rain, but allowed air to flow freely in the summer. Koba houses were traditionally built of mud bricks baked in the sun to a cement-like strength, but Wasimbu wanted a strong wooden floor like the one in the Porters’ little house.

“I watched the missionaries build it when I was a child, a few years before the Porters came here,” he had told Tarzan. “And I have travelled to other villages like Bonne Terre Township to learn how it is done. I want the best for Eshe.”

Because Wasimbu was to be married and the house was one of his gifts to his bride.

May had come and with it the end of the rainy season. The Little River that ran at the bottom of the village had retreated to its regular banks, leaving the ground covered in rich mud that would greatly replenish the soil, and temperatures climbed so that they could put off the extra clothes all had donned in the winter months. Tarzan himself had begun to wear the same colorfully woven shirts as the Koba men, after Muviro had gifted him with one. They let him stay warm without hindering his arms, as the cloak sometimes did. Tarzan was finding that he liked clothes. He liked that he could stay dry and comfortable and look almost as handsome as the men in his tribe. He liked that he was becoming one of them.

“It’s going to look good, isn’t it?” Wasimbu said as they set the last boards. He sounded happy.

“Eshe will be very proud,” Tarzan agreed. “She is excited to have her own house.”

Wasimbu grinned, his eyes shining. Tarzan grinned back, happy for his friend. He was excited for the upcoming wedding; Jane had been helping Eshe prepare for it since they had announced their engagement. That had been in April, after an American holiday called Easter, and the preparations had been almost non-stop ever since. According to tradition, Wasimbu had many gifts to make for the bride before the ceremony.

“She will really know you love her,” Tarzan said now.

Wasimbu looked at him, surprised. “She knows I love her; that’s why she agreed to marry me. Now I’m showing her that I can take care of her, too.”

Tarzan stood, wiping his hands on his brown and green skirts. “Will I build Jane a house, to show her I can take care of her?”

Wasimbu grinned a little. “You should ask Porter; he can tell you what the white men do.”

This seemed a good time to ask the question that he had been wondering about for a while. “How knew you when you were ready to marry Eshe?”

Wasimbu, putting his tools away, considered. “I guess...when it felt that living apart from her for even a couple of hours was silly. We are both of age, so why not make ourselves a family, when we can look after each ourselves and each other without help? Besides, it felt right. I don’t know.” He looked sidelong at Tarzan. “Do you think you are ready to marry Jane?”

“I don’t know.” Tarzan frowned at his hands. “I don’t think I’m a proper man yet.”

“Why not?” Wasimbu sounded genuinely surprised. “Tarzan, when you came here you could not even speak, and now you are helping me to build my house! You help to provide for your family by fishing and doing chores; you’re a great weaver; and you can even read and write in English. Anyone with eyes and sense would think of you as a true man.”

“I cannot be a Koba,” Tarzan said, a little sadly. He understood now the difference between being born Koba and being born English.

“You are a member of the tribe,” Wasimbu said, “and I don’t think Janey cares one way or the other what the customs are. She grew up here, remember. You are both Koba in spirit.”

Tarzan smiled a little, relieved. Sometimes it seemed that he would always be different, that he would never truly belong anywhere.  It was hard for him to think think of how different his life would have been had his English parents had not died. If Jack and Alice had lived, Father said, he would always been called John and would have gone to an English school and learned English people things: reading and writing and mathematics and science and a language called Latin that was Very Important. He would have worn clothes forever and learned how to be with people and would never have lived with any animals, except maybe dogs and horses. And he would never have had to fight for his life every moment of every day.

He would never have known or loved Kala and Akut. He would never have met Jane or grown to love her.

Sometimes, especially when he saw parents with their children, Tarzan regretted that he had never known Jack and Alice. But he did not regret his life in the jungle with his mother and brother or his place among the Koba, with Jane, now. He would not trade loving Jane for anything.

As the sun reached its highest point, the men put their tools away and parted. It was the custom to rest during the hottest part of the day, and most headed for home. Tarzan stopped at the little house neighboring on Mwana’s, where Ulaiya and Kwete lived. Ulaiya called a greeting as he and Kwete entered.

“Tarzan! I have finished Jane’s robe.” She held up a length of dark red cotton shot through with white threads: the results of two months of Tarzan’s hard work at his loom. Ulaiya had cut and stitched it so that it would hang over the shoulders; the front could hang open or be belted shut, and the sleeves reached the elbow. It was a fine garment, one that he had seen many of the women wearing during the rains. Jane did not have one, which meant that she could not be in her nightgown in front of Tarzan, because that was Improper. (He did not understand this, when they shared a room and when he saw her in her nightgown anyway, but it was one of Father’s Rules and he did not question it.) With a robe, she could take off her day clothes and relax in the parlour with them. He took it from Ulaiya with a delighted smile.

“It is very beautiful,” he said. “I thank you.”

Ulaiya grinned. “Janey will love it. She will be delighted.”

“I will dig your garden tomorrow,” Tarzan said, clumsily folding the robe. This was the agreed upon trade for Ulaiya’s handiwork.

Ulaiya took the robe back and folded it properly. “Yes, tomorrow will be fine. Here you are: go on now, and make sure you tell me tomorrow what your sweetheart thinks.”

Tarzan grinned again, a little bashful, and left.

As he walked home, Tarzan gathered wildflowers that grew along the path leading down to the Porters’ house: Jane liked flowers; he had noticed from the beginning that she filled the little house with pots of freshly picked flowers. After he had returned to them for good, Father had mentioned that one way to court your sweetheart was to bring her flowers. Ever since, Tarzan had kept the little vases full for Jane. He liked to do things that made her smile. Many things made her smile: the flowers, having hot water in her bedroom wash pitcher when she woke in the morning, talking about the things he was learning, playing with the children, dancing. Tarzan could not dance how American people danced, but he was getting quite good at the Koba dances. The greatest moment of his life had been the night when Jane had taken his hand and led him into the women’s dance, thus publicly claiming him as her own. One of these days, probably after Wasimbu’s wedding, they were going to take a trip into the jungle so that she could see the animals she wanted to write about in her book, though obviously he could not take her anywhere near the Mangani. She would be safe as long as he was by her side.

Tarzan grinned to himself as he carried his gifts into the house, entering through back door into the kitchen. He tied the stems of the little orange, white, and purple posy together with a piece of string and lay it atop the folded robe. There. Perfect. Now he had only to wait for Jane. The voices of some of the village children rose and fell, coming from the parlor and Tarzan looked through to see them sitting about on the floor, reciting rhymes with Jane. He smiled and stood silent, watching.

“The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea

  In a beautiful pea-green boat,

They took some honey, and plenty of money,

  Wrapped up in a five-pound note.”

 

It was a silly poem, taken from a small green book that Jane had brought to Africa with her as a small child, full of other silly poems and stories. Tarzan liked to read it out loud to her in the evenings, Jane’s quiet laughter at the much-loved poems a gentle accompaniment to Tarzan’s low soft voice. Sometimes he lingered over the Owl’s love song: “Oh let us be married; too long we have tarried!” Once he had looked into Jane’s eyes as he said it and watched her face grow rosy, and he had known that she felt as much desire for him as he did for her.

Jane, sitting on the parlor floor, felt a prickle across the back of her shoulders and knew that Tarzan was watching. She smiled to herself. He rarely made any noise as he moved about, but she could always tell when he was close by. Sometimes Tarzan crept up behind her and bellowed like an elephant, laughing when she screamed and jumped. More often he made animal calls, birds and monkeys and occasionally his own ululating cry, and sometimes he simply waited for her to notice him. It had become something of a game between them.

Then of course the children noticed him and it was the end of the lesson, as they jumped up and swarmed around him, laughing and calling. Tarzan, who could always be counted on for a shoulder ride or to kick a ball about, was a great favorite among the village children. He waded among them, smiling and exchanging greetings, lifting the smallest ones to toss in the air.

“That’s enough for today, my dears,” Jane called over the hubbub. “Off you go, now, and I’ll see you later.”

She saw the children out of the house and turned to Tarzan, smiling. “They love you.”

“They are sweet and funny,” Tarzan replied. He liked children--Mangani or human, they made him smile. He cleared his throat. “Jane, I have something for you. A present.”

“A present!” Jane said, surprised. “I thought you were helping Wasimbu with his house.”

“I was,” Tarzan replied. “Come and see.”

Jane followed him through to the kitchen, wondering what sort of a present he had found. She knew that Tarzan was taking their courtship very seriously; everything he did was to prove himself to her, not that he really needed to anymore.

On the table rested a folded bundle of dark red cloth on which lay a small bouquet of wildflowers. Tarzan picked it up and held it out to her, his face shy. Smiling, Jane took the posy and laid it aside, reaching for the bundle. It fell open in her hands, revealing itself to be a mantle of the sort that the Koba women wore. The cotton was carefully woven and shot through with white; she recognized it as the stuff Tarzan had been working on since March. The robe itself was beautifully made, with short sleeves and a lovely drape. It looked like it would fit her perfectly.

“Tarzan! Did you make this?” Jane cried, astonished.

“I maked the cloth. _Made_ the cloth. Ulaiya was sewing it.” He looked pleased at her reaction. “Do you like it?”

“ _Like_ it? It’s _beautiful_! I’ve always wanted one of these, but there was always some other project to do--” Jane broke off, laying the robe over the back of a chair and reaching for him. She cradled his face in her hands. “Oh darling, thank you! You--”

She didn’t know what to say, how to convey her delight. Words were unnecessary. It seemed so natural in that moment to reach up and kiss him, right on the mouth. His lips were smooth and warm, and parted in surprise so that for a moment their tongues touched. It was delicious to be so close to him, faces touching, mouths moving together, and then Jane pulled back, blushing scarlet. They had never kissed before. Tarzan looked down at her with huge eyes, a smile beginning to spread across his face. Wordlessly he took her into his arms and bent his face to hers, lips meeting hers and clinging for a long moment. Heat welled up inside her as his mouth caressed hers; the world shrank to only the two of them, pressed together, as he kissed her once, twice, three times. Then he rested his forehead against hers.

“Jane,” he whispered. “I love you.”

Jane grinned up at him, giggling a little. “I love you, too, John Clayton,” she said. “You’re my treasure.”

Outside, echoing up the hill from the river, came the mournful call of a steamboat’s whistle. As one they turned to look towards the front door. It was the wrong day of the month for the riverboat from Boma to pass by the village on the way to Bonne Terre Township. Who could this possibly be?

 

 

Author's Note: The relationship progresses! Mwahaha. "The Owl and the Pussycat" is a poem by Edward Lear originally published in 1871, so perfect for my purposes here. Mr. Cecil is an original character that we'll be seeing quite a bit of. Lord Tennington is from the original Tarzan novels, a rather sweet and jolly young man whom Tarzan befriends in "The Return of Tarzan". I've decided to co-opt him. I had a great deal of fun writing this chapter, and I hope you all like it. Please leave me a comment and let me know! Comments give me so much encouragement and I'm so grateful when you leave them. 


	20. The Englishmen

**Chapter Nineteen: The Englishmen**

 

Outside, a keen wind blew up the hill, ruffling the grasses and the hall’s thatched roof. From the direction of the river came once more the steamboat’s piping cry. Heads were raised; it was not the usual day for a steamboat to be approaching the village. The usual boat came every month, stopping for an hour or so to drop off supplies for the Porters and take on any mail they wished to send, then continuing upriver to Bonne Terre Township before circling back two days later. This was not that boat. It was smaller, the sort of vessel that could be piloted by a trio of men. It came alongside the riverbank and a young man of the Teka tribe jumped ashore to tie it up, calling a greeting to the villagers gathered nearby.

“These Englishmen are looking for a man called Porter,” he said. “They mean no harm.”

A ripple went through the villagers; Professor Porter rarely received visitors. The English gentlemen were conveyed ashore into the crowd, who gazed at them with curiosity but not unkindness. Children were sent running back towards the village to alert the chief and fetch the professor.

“I am Frederick Cecil,” the taller of the two gentlemen said, addressing himself to Kwete, who had been down near the river gardens when the boat arrived. He was tall and thin, with dark hair and birdlike features and a neat moustache. “I am looking for Archimedes Porter and John Clayton.”

Kwete raised his eyebrows. “Professor Porter we can bring you, certainly. This way.”

He led Cecil and the other, younger man, Tennington, along the path towards the village. Halfway along they met Chief Muviro and Porter coming down to greet them, surrounded by what seemed to be the rest of the  village. Porter waited while Muviro stepped forward to greet the newcomers.

“I am Muviro, chief of this village,” he said in his perfect, lightly accented English. “What is your business here? Whom do you seek?”

“Chief Muviro,” Cecil said, bowing his head. “My name is Frederick Cecil; this is my colleague, William Tennington. We’ve come in search of Professor Porter.” His eyes flicked over Muviro’s shoulder to where Porter stood waiting. “I trust we have come to the right village? They said in Boma it was three days upriver.”

Muviro grinned a little, amused by the Englishman’s formality. “Here is Porter, as you can see. My friend, do you know these men?”

Porter stepped forward, hand extended. “I believe they are the gentlemen from the British Colonial Office in Freetown, to whom I wrote  about Tarzan,” he said. “Gentlemen, welcome. I trust your journey was uneventful.”

Cecil gave him the relieved smile of a coloniser uncertain of his welcome. “Thank you, Professor, it was properly dull. This is my colleague,William Tennington. We’ve come to investigate your claim about the child of Jack and Alice Clayton.”

“Of course, of course,” Porter said. “I wasn’t certain my letter would be answered. “You must forgive the crowd; we rarely get visitors here. Never would be the more accurate statement, actually. Why don’t you come along to the house; we can talk there.”

The crowd dispersed; Cecil and Tennington followed Porter and, somewhat to their surprise, Chief Muviro along the path towards a little house built in the Western style, with a veranda and sloped roof. A young woman stood alone on the porch--obviously Porter’s daughter--watching them come. She was very pretty, Cecil noticed, with bright red hair and an open face, dressed in white sprigged muslin. She dipped her head at them as they approached.

“Jane, dear, these gentlemen are from the Colonial Office in Freetown,” Porter said. “Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Jane.”

“Miss Porter,” Cecil said, bowing over her hand, and Tennington echoed him.

“Welcome,” Miss Porter said. She glanced over her shoulder at something Cecil could not see. “Please come in; you must be hungry. I’ll just make tea, shall I?”

She excused herself and vanished into the deeper reaches of the little house, closing the through door behind her. There was no sign of the man claiming to be John Clayton the Third. Porter led them into the small but well-appointed house, through the front door that gave onto a comfortable parlor. He moved to a small cabinet, suggesting they might want something a little stronger, and began to pour out drinks, giving the Englishmen time to look around. Muviro, seating himself in the best chair, watched in amusement at the two men took in the Porters’ home.  A basket of mending sat beside the little sofa, which was strewn with picture books and a slate containing half-completed phrases. Framed photographs and pictures of plants and animals decorated the walls, a small table was strewn with papers, and a half-played game of chess waited to be finished at the dining table. Cecil, looking at it, saw that one player had worked the other into a corner from which it would be difficult to extract himself.

“Are you a chess player, sir?” he asked as Porter passed around small glasses of palm wine.

Porter followed his eyes and grinned. “I thought I was, until I met John. That’s his work, if you can believe it. He’s a wizard at chess.”

“Yes, John,” Cecil said, sipping at the wine. “I must confess, I find the whole story incredible.”

“Well, it’s an incredible story,” Porter said. “I confess myself gratified that my letter was listened to at all.”

Tennington smiled. “A letter from an eminent scientist about a missing English child? Have some faith in yourself, Professor. We are all of us intrigued.”

“Yes, well.” Porter sat and indicated for his guests to do the same. “He’s not a child. He’s twenty years old and far stronger than any man I’ve ever met before. He’s had a hard life, but not an unhappy one.”

“Are you certain that he is the child of Jack and Alice Clayton?” Cecil said. He had not, in all the time since receiving Porter’s letter, let himself hope that Jack and Alice had had a child who survived. He had not dared to get his hopes up. Until he knew otherwise, he had to believe that this boy was not related to the people he had loved so dearly and lost under such tragic circumstances.

Porter met his eyes. His face was serious. “I am. I have no reason to believe otherwise. He came out of the jungle with their belongings and Jack Clayton’s diary. I can show you.”

He stood and went to the desk, removing from a drawer a leather-bound notebook. Cecil took the proffered diary, his heart leaping about in his chest. He knew this diary, had ordered it himself in his secretarial days, when he was young and the world was new and exciting, and he had wanted to celebrate the fact that his best friend would join him in African adventures. The diary was battered, and begrimed with moss, but remarkably still intact. He opened the cover and thumbed through it. The writing was Jack’s. There was the entry for the day he and Alice sailed. There was the entry for the shipwreck. There was the entry noting Alice’s broken ankle, and her pregnancy. There was the birth of a little son, the impression of the baby’s hand. Cecil touched it, and passed the diary to Tennington.

“Are these prints clear enough to read?”

“I daresay,” Tennington said. “Yes, if the man’s hands are undamaged.”

“My God,” Cecil murmured, taking the diary back and thumbing through the pages again. “They survived almost a year. Poor Jack. Poor, poor Alice.”

Porter nodded. “You see why I wanted to alert their families.”

“Yes.” Cecil closed the diary and held it between his hands. He had an unsettling image in his mind of Jack’s face, helpless and begging for someone to save his child. “It will give Lord Greystoke and the Rutherfords a measure of peace. They’ve never stopped mourning.”

For a moment he was silent, then,

“Did he suffer?” Cecil asked. His voice was tight, and Porter looked at him surprised. He cleared his throat. “I knew his parents, you see. Jack and Alice...they were very dear to me, Professor. The news that they might have had a child…”

“Ah.” Porter nodded, his face a study in sympathy. “The news must have been quite a shock. I apologize. I don’t think he suffered, no.”

“You must tell them how he was raised,” Muviro said. “They need to know that right away.”

“How was he raised?” Tennington asked, intrigued. “We rather thought he grew up here.”

Muviro chuckled. “He did not. He is one of the Mangani and was raised by them.”

“Mangani?”

“A species of great ape,” Porter said. “Possibly related to gorillas, but bigger and much more dangerous. John was raised by a female he calls Kala; he did not interact with humans until he met my daughter last summer.”

For a moment there was silence in the little room as the men stared at each other.

“You...expect me to believe this?” Cecil said. He didn’t know whether to be horrified or to laugh.

“It’s true,” Porter replied. “The villagers knew about him, but…”

He trailed off, looking at Muviro. “We did not know that he was a man,” the chief said. “We thought he was some sort of evil spirit, because what human creature runs with the wild Mangani?  It was not until he saved Janey in the jungle that anyone got a good look at him.”

Porter nodded. “He was badly injured by the alpha of the pack, and we took him in while he healed. At the time he could not speak and knew nothing of humanity, but he learned very quickly. Eventually he brought Clayton’s diary out of the jungle to show me, and that’s when I first realized who he was. He was at first bewildered by his parents’ history. He barely accepts it even now.”

Cecil looked down at the diary in his hands. Jack’s diary. Jack’s child, raised by apes. It was impossible; it couldn’t be true. Even if Porter was one of the world’s most respected explorers, such a tale could only be nonsense. And where was the boy, if he existed?

*

A fierce argument was brewing in the kitchen of the Porters’ little house. When she had returned to the kitchen, it had taken Jane all of the persuasive power she had to convince Tarzan not to flee into the jungle.

“They will try to take me away,” he said, crouching down in the corner by the door.

“They will do no such thing,” Jane replied. “They can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

He glowered up at her. “If they try to make me go with them, I will disappear into the jungle.”

“Yes, that’s exactly right. But come on, they just want to see who you are. That can’t hurt, can it? They know your family.”

“I have no family! My Kala is dead. Jack and Alice are dead.”

“But you might have other family in England,” Jane said. “Grandparents and aunts and uncles. They would want to know about you, don’t you think?”

Tarzan huffed. What use were grandparents who didn’t know that you existed, who had nothing to do with your life? Kala and Akut had been his family. Now the Porters were his family. The village was his family. What need did Tarzan have for any others?

He stayed crouched in the corner as Jane hurried about the kitchen, setting the kettle to boil and fetching down a box from a high shelf. She removed from it a fine tea set, laying it out on the breakfast tray. She spooned tea into the pot and set out a tiny jar of ground white sugar, kept special for company. Tarzan watched her move about the room.

“Go wash your face and change your skirts,” Jane said, glancing over at him. “They’ll expect us to look neat and presentable. And while you’re changing, fold up your blankets and take them to Father’s room.”

“Why?” Tarzan asked, startled. Since coming back from the jungle he had spent every night sleeping on Jane’s floor, wishing that Porter would go away again so that he could sleep with her in her bed, as they had done the first two nights.

“Because they are English,” Jane said, nonsensically. She opened the breadbox and removed some of the rolls she had made the day before, setting them on the tea tray with a crock of butter and a pot of jam. “These are stale, but they’ll have to do.”

“I...don’t understand.”

“Look,” Jane said, adding tiny spoons to the saucer of each teacup. What were they going to need all of this for, Tarzan wondered. “In Africa, in this village, it is all right for you to sleep on my floor like you do. But the English have very strict ideas about what is proper, and they would think badly of me if they knew we shared a room.”

Tarzan frowned. “Why? We don’t have sex.”

Jane reddened. “But they’ll think we do, if they know.”

“But we don’t! It’s not allowed.”

“I know, but they will see that you and I are sharing a room, unmarried, and they’ll assume that we do.”

“But that’s stupid! They are stupid English people.” Tarzan made an angry gesture. He did not want to sleep in Father’s room. It was nicer with Jane, who did not snore, and who told stories until they both fell asleep. Jane, pouring hot water into the teapot, didn’t notice. “You are not bad! You are good! We are proper.”

“Not according to Western ideas,” Jane said grimly.

“They are stupid-”

“John!” Jane caught him, holding his face between her hands. “John, look at me. Different cultures have different rules. Father and the Koba don’t mind you sleeping in my room because you were wild and didn’t know any better, and because they know that you are good. But the English--who we are both descended from--have different rules, and they don’t care what the circumstances are. If an unmarried man and woman share a room, even without--without sex, then they are bad.”

“Stupid,” Tarzan said again. “I don’t understand.”

Jane gave him a light shake. “I’m not asking you to understand, I’m asking you to respect. All right?”

He sighed. Of course he would respect Jane’s wishes. “I will come back after they go?”

“Yes, of course. Now promise me you won’t say anything about it.”

“I promise.”

Jane smiled, and smoothed her hands over his face. “Thank you. Now go change, so that I can.”

Grumbling to himself, Tarzan slipped through the corridor to Jane’s room. He splashed water on his face, and changed out of his brown and beige skirt to the green and brown one, and wound his belt back about his waist. The green bead necklace that Eshe had shown him how to make was around his neck. Tarzan shrugged his long hair over his shoulders and reached under Jane’s bed for his mattress and blanket. Moving on soft feet, he carried the lot to Father’s room and dumped it unceremoniously in the corner.

Jane had gone to change when he returned to the kitchen, and Tarzan could hear Father telling the Englishmen about how he had saved Jane from Kerchak. He felt a stab of anger at Porter for having written to them at all. They didn’t matter. The only people who mattered were here in this village; they were all Tarzan needed. How could Porter have done this terrible thing? He had ruined everything.

Jane came back a moment later in the dress she called “best”: a soft blue and white striped frock of American cotton, which Tarzan had seen in her wardrobe but never on her person. Tarzan didn’t know what made it American, but he liked the dress on Jane. She had brushed her red hair and repinned it back at the nape of her neck, as she had taken to doing recently. She looked pretty.

“All right,” she said, taking the loaded tray up in her hands. “Ready? Come on.”

Tarzan brushed her skirt as she moved by him, letting the soft cotton slip through his fingers. His stomach twisted; he did not want to see these men, who would change everything. But he trusted Jane, and despite his anger he trusted Father and Muviro, and so he took a deep breath and followed her through the door.

Frederick Cecil had been listening to Porter’s story with great interest. The boy John’s escapades and injuries in rescuing Miss Porter were phenomenal, and denoted great human courage and integrity, and his willingness and ability to learn astonished both Englishmen. They would never have imagined that a child raised without human interaction would be able to learn, but Porter showed them a notebook full of rough handwriting: words and phrases John had scribbled as he learned to manipulate language. Already the writing was progressing from heavy-fisted scratches to semi-neat block printing. The sentence structure was growing more complicated, too.

“He seems intelligent,” Cecil said, relieved for Jack’s sake that his son was not a simpleton. His purported son, anyway. _You don’t know. None of this proves anything._

Where was he, anyway? He was about to ask when the door leading to the rest of the house swung open and Miss Porter came in, carrying a laden tea tray. Cecil and Tennington stood as she entered.

“I’m sorry for the delay,” she said, setting the tray on the little table. “I hope you gentlemen don’t mind a simple tea; we haven’t much European food on hand.”

“It’s quite alright, miss,” Tennington said, ever gallant, but Cecil could not speak, for his eyes had slid past Miss Porter to the man behind her, and he was struck dumb.

The young man who stood just inside the doorway was tall, outrageously tall--he had the Greystoke height. His body was long and lithe and well-muscled, and his face was wary and stern, brows drawn together over clear grey eyes--Alice’s eyes, looking out of Jack’s face. He wore nothing but a short green skirt and brown belt like a native, and a beaded necklace. He watched Cecil staring at him, frowning.

“Mr. Cecil, Lord Tennington, this is John, whom the Koba call Tarzan,” Porter said, and fell quiet, seeing Cecil’s amazement.

Cecil took a deep breath, turned, and walked out of the house. He could feel their eyes on him as he went, but did not stop until he stood on the little front verandah. His throat had tightened; he put a hand on his chest and forced himself to breathe. _He is their child_. Soft footsteps sounded behind him. It was Chief Muviro.

“Forgive me, sir,” Cecil mumbled, dashing tears from his eyes. “That was rude of me.”

“You see your friends in his face,” Muviro said, his voice gentle.

“Yes.”

“I wondered if you would,” Muviro replied. “I have always thought that Tarzan was so very handsome that his parents must have been striking.”

“God,” Cecil said. “He looks just like them, a perfect mix. And he grew up in the jungle.”

“Yes he did,” Muviro said. “Come, my friend. Come and meet him.”

Cecil pulled in a deep breath and calmed himself. He followed Muviro back into the parlor, where Miss Porter had set her tray down on the little table and was holding John Clayton the Third by the wrist.

“Forgive me,” Cecil said, holding out his hand to the young man. “Seeing you gave me a shock. You look so like your father. But you have your mother’s coloring.

John glanced at Cecil’s hand and slowly reached to take it. His skin was warm, the palm and fingers calloused. For a moment they pressed hands, then John let his fall to his side. Miss Porter tugged on him.

“Come sit down,” she murmured, and John allowed himself to be tugged down beside her. He did not speak, but Cecil had the impression that he was taking everything in and storing it away for later. Miss Porter poured out the tea and passed it around; they settled themselves down and Tennington, at least, tucked into bread and jam with gusto. Cecil held his teacup in hands that shook.

“We received Professor Porter’s letter six weeks ago,” he said to John. “I knew Jack and Alice Clayton and wanted to confirm your identity before we let your family know about you.”

John didn’t speak, but dipped his head. Miss Porter glanced at him and asked, “Are there many Claytons in England?”

“Not in the Greystoke line,” Cecil said. “No, old Lord Greystoke, John Clayton the first, is the last of his family. Everyone thought that with no heirs, the title would die with him.”

John glanced at Miss Porter. She seemed to understand him without words, asking pertinent questions about Jack and Alice, about Alice’s family. Porter and Muviro helped her keep the conversation going. Cecil answered, keeping his eyes on John, who would not look at him. The young man had taken a fold of Miss Porter’s skirt between his fingers and was rubbing it, as though nervous. His face had not lost the stern look.

“And how do you propose to prove John is a Greystoke?” Miss Porter asked at last.

“Ah,” Tennington said. “That’s where I come in. I’m an expert in fingerprints. You’re in luck, Mr. Clayton, that there is a handprint in Clayton’s diary. It means we can easily prove you are his son.”

John’s eyebrows rose.

“How?” asked Jane.

Tennington reached for his little bag, removing from it a bottle of ink, a rubber roller, a magnifying glass, and a small notebook. “Every person in the world has a unique set of fingerprints. Science has realized that these can be used for identification purposes. Jack Clayton took an impression of his newborn son’s hand. If I take an impression of the hand of our man here, and they are the same, then we can prove without a doubt that he is his father’s son.”

Cecil gave a small smile. “I’m afraid it’s necessary if you want to claim the title. If we took you to England everyone who knew them would see that you are Jack and Alice’s son, but the law will need proof beyond any doubt.”

He fell silent, seeing John’s face go dark. Miss Porter took his hand and held it.

“You don’t have to go to England,” she murmured. “It’s all right.”

John wound his fingers through Jane’s and glared.

“Quite right,” Cecil said, surprised. “We just want to give you the choice. You deserve to know your family.”

John heaved a sigh, but still did not speak. Cecil looked helplessly at Porter and Muviro. The chief spoke in Lingala, his voice kind but firm; John sighed again and stood, holding out his right hand to Tennington.

“Jolly good,” Tennington said, and dabbed John’s fingers with black ink, then pressed them into the fine white paper. He took up the magnifying glass and looked closely first at the fresh prints, then those in Jack’s diary. There was silence in the little room as they watched him work.

“It’s him,” Tennington said at last. He looked up at John Clayton with a broad grin. “Congratulations, Lord Greystoke! Your people will be thrilled to know you exist.”

John gave a tight sort of smile, dipped his head again, and left the room. The Englishmen stared after him.

“Is he coming back?” Tennington asked.

“No,” Miss Porter sighed. “Maybe at bedtime. Please don’t mind him, gentlemen. I didn’t think he would act like this.”

“He _can_ speak, can’t he?” Cecil asked.

“Yes, very well,” Porter said. He rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know why he’s being so difficult.”

Muviro glanced sideways at him. “He was surprised at your arrival. Do not be concerned. He will come around. Now, Mr. Tennington, show me again how your fingerprints work.”

They did not see John Clayton for the rest of the day.


	21. Courage

**Chapter Twenty: Courage**

 

Tarzan reappeared at dinnertime, but only because Jane went looking for him. She found him cleaning fish for Mwana, crouching on the ground just outside her house. Mwana, who had been talking with him, gave Jane a friendly smile. 

“How are the Englishmen?”

“They’re very nice,” Jane said. “They want to know all about Tarzan.”

Tarzan frowned at the de-scaled fish in his hand. “Are they staying for supper?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Jane said. “They’re going to stay for at least a week. Father invited them. They made a great journey to be here.”

“Huh.” Tarzan stood and reached for a jug to pour water over his hands. 

“You weren’t very nice to them,” Jane said. “Why didn’t you speak?”

Tarzan shrugged. He didn’t understand himself what he was feeling. There was anger at Father for sending for the Englishmen, and at the Englishmen for coming. There was fear that they would force him to go with them. And there was something else, something in the way they looked at him, at the way they spoke, that made him feel--what? Jane was watching him with puzzled eyes. 

“They look at me like so,” Tarzan said, and mimicked the look on Mr. Cecil’s face as best he could. 

“With amazement,” Jane said. “With disbelief.”

“Yes. I don’t like it.”

Jane put her hand on his arm. “I know. But they really do want to know you. Mr. Cecil is kind, and he knew your father. I think he’s really pleased to know you.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Mwana said, surprised. “Tarzan. You should talk to your father’s friend. Maybe he can tell you some interesting things.”

Tarzan shrugged again. Mwana chuckled and presented him with three of the cleaned fish wrapped in banana leaves. 

“Go on,” she said. “Be peaceful, my love; they cannot mean any harm.”

Tarzan gave her a small smile and allowed Jane to tug him towards home. 

“We can eat those for dinner. I’ll make it with pilipili sauce,” Jane said. She put her arm through Tarzan’s. “Buck up, John. If they threaten you, just toss them out the window. I bet you’re stronger than both of them.”

It was fact, not flattery, what she said, but Tarzan grinned a little anyway. It made him feel a little better to know that whatever happened, Jane and Mwana supported him. 

“Do you like him?”

“Mr. Cecil? Yes, he seems like a kind gentleman,” Jane said. “I usually have good instincts for nice people, you know. That’s why I wasn’t afraid of you.”

Tarzan put his arm around her. He could go by Jane and behave himself for her sake, if no one else’s. 

Dinner was a strange affair. Rather than eating in the kitchen, as they usually did, Porter cleared off the table in the parlor that he used as a desk and asked Tarzan to set that, instead. Jane brought out a fine cloth of white linen to lay over it, which was also new. 

“Why are we putting clothes on the table?” he whispered to her. 

“Because we have company,” Jane replied. “It’s just nice.”

And it  _ did _ look nice when set with the Porters’ blue and white china and silverware. Jane put the posy that Tarzan had given her earlier into a cup of water and set it in the center, and they gathered around the table. 

“What a very pretty posy, Miss Porter,” Cecil said, smiling. 

“Thank you. John gave it to me.”

Cecil’s eyes shifted to Tarzan. Tarzan tried not to look stern, to remind himself that this man meant no harm. 

“Jane likes flowers,” he murmured, not realizing that these were the first words he had said to his father’s best friend. 

“There are many beautiful flowers in Africa,” Cecil agreed. “My wife keeps a garden at our home. She mixes flowers from England with the native plants.”

Tarzan wrestled with this throughout the meal. Finally, as Jane brought out rice pudding and banana fritters, he said, “How does she mix England flowers with African ones?”

“Who? Oh, Margarete, of course. She brings cuttings back with her whenever we visit home,” Cecil said. “Roses and lilies and the like.”

“Cuttings are when you take a part of the plant and replant it in new soil,” Porter explained. He set down his fork and reached for one of the flowers. “If we take the cutting from this plant, for example, we can cut the stem here, where the leaves have grown, and replant it. With care it will become a fully rooted plant in its own right.”

“Oh.” This was new and interesting information. “What are roses?”

This caused Cecil and Tennington to look astonished again, though they both quickly masked it. Tarzan frowned at them and dropped his eyes to his plate. 

“They’re a kind of flower,” Jane said. “I’ll draw you one after dinner.”

After dinner it was decided that Cecil would stay with the Porters in the guest bedroom and that Tennington would sleep in the cabin on the boat that had brought them upriver. 

“Are you alright with that, Lord Tennington?” Jane asked.

“Yes, yes, I love boats. We actually sailed down to Boma on my little yacht. One of these days I’ll sail around the world,” Tennington replied. He gave her a friendly grin. “Never fear, Miss Porter. Sleeping on our river boat will be good for me.” 

“It’s very good of you to give up your room to me,” Cecil said to Tarzan. 

Aware that both of the Porters’ eyes had turned to him, Tarzan gave a small nod. “It is nothing. I will sleep with Father.”

“You’re very discreet,” Porter said later, turning down his blankets and settling down on the bed. 

Tarzan, making up his own bed on the floor, looked at him narrowly. “Jane said they will think badly of us if they know I sleep in her room.”

“Well, she’s right. They would,” Porter said. He looked at Tarzan for a long moment; the younger man studiously ignoring him. “Alright, then, out with it. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Porter snorted. “Please, John. You’ve hardly said a work all day and your face is a thundercloud. You’re upset because they came here, aren’t you?”

Tarzan whirled to face him. “I am angry because you wrote to them! Why did you do that? They will ruin everything!”

“What will they ruin?”

Tarzan glared at him. “They stare at me. They think  I am--that I am--”

“Wild,” supplied Porter. “Well, you are. Or you were.”

“Not wild,” Tarzan snapped. “Stupid. They think I am stupid.”

“I saw no evidence of that. They were just trying to talk.”

Tarzan shook his head. How could he explain that he did not like how they stared at him? He voiced a different fear. “They will want to take me away!”

Porter stared at him. “Who said that?”

Tarzan shrugged and folded his arms. 

“No one is going to take you anywhere,” Porter said. “No one  _ could _ take you anywhere if you didn’t want to go. You may not have noticed,” he added wryly, “but you’re exceptionally strong.”

“I don’t want them,” Tarzan said. “Mr. Cecil says he knowed Jack and Alice, but that was long ago, before I was borned. I never had Jack or Alice and I never needed them. I had Mother and Akut before and now I have Jane and you and our village, and we are happy! I don’t need any English family.”

“No,” Porter said. “But have you ever thought that perhaps they need you?”

          Tarzan opened his mouth and closed it. No, he had not thought that, never considered it for a moment. All day he had been full of thunder, but Porter’s words brought him up short. 

“I am nothing,” he said at last. “I cannot do anything English. Why do they need me?”

Porter shifted. “Imagine that...that Akut, say, disappeared one day and you never knew what happened to him. Then one day, many years later, you learn that Akut had a child and that that child is alive and well. Wouldn’t you want to see it? Wouldn’t you want to know it?”

“Akut has a baby,” Tarzan said softly. “With Teeka. I cannot ever go back and see it.”

“But do you understand what I mean?”

Tarzan nodded. “You mean they loved Jack and Alice, and now maybe they want to love me.”

“Yes,” Porter said. “Jack and Alice _ disappeared _ , John. They kissed their family and friends goodbye and got on a ship and no one ever saw them again. Twenty years is a long time not to know what happened to your friends. And now you are here, and you’re their child. Of course Cecil wants to know you. Of course the Greystokes will.”

Tarzan looked down at his blankets. This was a new thought. It made him feel sad for Cecil and the rest of Jack and Alice’s loved ones. He sighed and lay down, his back to Porter. Porter reached to put out the candle. 

“Please give them a chance,” he said, his voice gentle. “Cecil grew up with your father; they were like brothers. Give him a chance to get to know you before you decide you don’t like him.”

They lay in silence for a few minutes. From his mattress Tarzan could see through the half-open door to Jane’s room. Light showed under the door and he felt a stab of longing. 

“Do you always just go right to sleep?” he asked, shifting on the mattress. 

“Usually,” replied Porter, surprised. “Why, what do you do?”

Tarzan shifted again, unable to get comfortable. “We read stories. Jane reads, then I read, then we put out the light and go to sleep.”

Porter smiled to himself; how very domestic of them. “I can read to you, if you like.”

“No thank you,” Tarzan said. “You are not Jane.”

“Suit yourself. Good night, John.”

“Good night, Father.”

Tarzan closed his eyes and forced himself to be still. Funny, he had never really had a difficult time falling asleep before. After a while Father began to rumble and Tarzan sighed. After what seemed like a long time, he got up and on silent feet slipped out of the bedroom. In the hallway he stood for a long moment looking at Jane’s door. He sighed again. There was candlelight under Cecil’s door, too. Tarzan turned and went through the kitchen, out the back door and into the night. It would be easier to sleep in the jungle. 

The night was dark and still, full of the calls of nighttime birds and bugs. There was still light in the village, but most people were long abed. Tarzan loped across the little meadow behind the house towards the jungle. Once under the eaves he took to the trees, climbing high up off of the ground, then settling himself on a wide branch, he closed his eyes and fell asleep. 

  
  


Author's Note: This is getting emotional. It's also writing itself, which is good news. Thank you to everyone who has left a comment! Comments really help me to feel motivated and encouraged, and if you are enjoying this story, please drop me a line or two (or more!) and let me know. Thanks for reading!


	22. His Father's Friend

**Chapter Twenty-one: His Father's Friend**

 

In the morning John was not at breakfast, though Cecil found hot water in the jug on his dresser and the kettle was hot on the stove.

“Did you hear him go out?” Porter asked his daughter.

Jane shook her head. “You know how silently he moves, even when he doesn’t mind being heard.”

Cecil swallowed his disappointment. Late into the night he had pondered the best way to put John at his ease. Yesterday had been a small disaster; that John didn’t trust him was  obvious. He couldn’t bear for Jack’s son to fear him.

“Do you know where he might have gone?”

“Probably to help Wasimbu with his house,” Jane said and directed the conversation to the upcoming wedding.  

After breakfast Cecil put on his boots and set off up the path into the village. He had been assured that these natives were friendly; their chief, certainly, had been very civil the day before. He received some curious looks as he ambled, but also friendly enough smiles. These people were far enough upriver that they had not had too many interactions with the white man beyond the missionaries who had tried, and failed, to convert them before the Porters’ arrival years before. Eventually he found the half-finished house Miss Porter had told him about, but John was not among the men working on it.

“He is working in the gardens,” Kwete informed him and pointed Cecil towards the river.

There Cecil found John Clayton the Third, heir to the Greystoke lands and titles, ankle deep in the loamy soil, turning over the earth by the spadeful. He glanced up as Cecil approached, but did not stop his work. For a few moments Cecil stood at the edge of the plot, watching him. In the bright morning light John looked as much of a giant as he had inside the day before. It was the Greystoke height; it ran in the family, but the thick, well-defined muscles that twisted and pulled with every thrust of the spade were uniquely his own, and reminded Cecil of professional acrobats he had seen. John was dressed again as the Koba men dressed, in a simple brown and green kilt with a belt about his waist. Cecil marveled at the scars on the young man’s body, the marks of bites and scratches on shoulders and chest, even a long thin scar that ran down from his hairline and one along the lower jawline. He wondered, too, that they hadn’t cut his hair. The long snarls falling down John’s back gave him a wild, uncouth appearance. But he was still extremely handsome, and his face this morning was clear and free of the thunder that had filled it yesterday.

“Is this your garden?” Cecil asked at last, not really knowing what else to say.

“No,” John said. He bent to tug up a weed and cast it aside. “It is Ulaiya’s garden. We maked a trade.”

“I see.” When John did not elaborate, Cecil cleared his throat. “John, I would like to apologize. I think I overwhelmed you yesterday. It was not my intention. I’m sorry.”

John straightened and planted his shovel in the rich soil. Wiping his hands on his skirts, he reached into the pouch on his belt and removed a small notebook and pencil of the sort a housekeeper might carry.

“How do you write it?”

“What, overwhelmed?”

John dipped his head, his face expectant, and Cecil found himself spelling the word out as the younger man wrote it down. When he had finished, John put the notebook back into his pouch and reached for the spade again.

“I will look it up later,” he said.

“Oh. It, er, it means that there was too much of something,” Cecil said. “Too much emotion of some sort,” he added lamely.

John paused in his digging again, considering. Understanding flashed in his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

The conversation was not going at all how Cecil had intended. The trouble was that he did not know what to say to this boy who was almost a man, did not know how much he understood. John had grown up entirely wild, Porter and the chief had said, entirely without human contact. Cecil watched him digging over the garden now, like a menial laborer, and felt a stabbing of desperation. That he was so awkward around Jack and Alice’s son-- _their son_ \--shamed him.

“What did you trade Ulaiya for?” he asked, casting about desperately for something to say. He wondered who Ulaiya was.

“She maked me a robe for Jane,” John said easily enough. “I maked the cloth, but I cannot sew clothes yet.”

“A robe?” An intimate garment, usually something given from a husband to his wife. Cecil was surprised. What _was_ the relationship between John and Miss Porter?

“Yes, so she can be in her nightgown around me and not be improper.” John straightened again, his eyes going stern. “What do you want from me, Mr. Cecil?”

Cecil drew in a deep breath. “When I received Professor Porter’s letter it was as though I’d had the wind knocked from me. No one ever knew what happened to Jack and Alice, you see, and their disappearance has given so many people so much pain. I couldn’t believe it when Porter claimed he had found you and that you were their child. I had to know if it could be true, if you could possibly be their son.”

“And what do you know now?” John gestured at himself, at his native apparel and overlong, matted hair. Cecil gave a soft laugh.

“Now? I can see your parents in every part of your face. Even without fingerprints I would know you were their son. You have your father’s face and height and your mother’s coloring.”

The ghost of a smile came into John’s face. “Did you love them?”

“I did, yes. Your father was my best and dearest friend. We met as small boys and grew up together. I was best man at his wedding to Alice.” Cecil paused as John reached again for his notebook and wrote the words down. “John, please know that you are under no obligation to me. I just want to know you and I want you to know who your parents were. They were good people, some of the bravest and most honorable I have ever known.”

John took a deep breath and let go of his sternness. “I am sorry for them,” he said softly. “Father says they survived for a long time before Alice got sick.”

“Have you read Jack’s diary?”

“No. I cannot read handwriting.” He dropped his eyes to his hands, clutching the shovel. “I am still learning, Mr. Cecil. My world, it is not the human world. I know how to survive in the wild, because I _am_ wild. My Jane was the first white person I ever seed. You are the third. This village, they were good to me when I was hurt. They teach me to be a man so that I can stay with Jane. But I cannot do English things.”

Cecil’s heart went out to him. “There is nothing wrong about that,” he said gently. “However you grew up, you are alive. Do you realize how extraordinary that is?”

John shrugged. “Every human I have met says so. My mother would not let me be killed; that is why I am alive.”

“Your...other mother,” Cecil said. “Your...ape-mother?”

John nodded, his face tightening with grief and pain, and Cecil remembered too late that Porter had told him that the she-ape had been killed by a hunter only a few months ago. Looking about for a change of topic, his eyes fell on a hoe resting on the ground, waiting to be used.

“Here,” he said, shrugging off his linen jacket and reaching for the tool, “allow me to assist you.”

“You know how to dig?” John looked surprised.

Cecil smiled at that. “Yes, well enough, though I’m no gardener. Tell me what to do.”

John stared at him again, eyes sweeping over Cecil’s tidy khaki trousers and crisp white shirt and straw hat. “Can you work in those clothes?”

“I daresay,” Cecil said. “They’ll wash.”

John grinned so unexpectedly that Cecil found himself smiling back. At the young man’s direction he struck into the soil, rooting up weeds and rocks and generally helping to clear the site. John did not speak much, but the wariness had gone out of him. He set a strong pace, though, one with which Cecil had a difficult time keeping up. They made good progress, but after about an hour John took the hoe from Cecil and handed him a clay gourd filled with water.

“Sit there,” he said, pointing to a nearby tree, “and tell me stories about Jack and Alice.”

Cecil chuckled. “Very well. At home we employ gardeners. Margaret considers me generally useless at helping with her flowers.”

“How do you live?” John asked, taking up the hoe and looking over Cecil’s work.

“What?”

“If you do not make a garden for food, how do you live?”

“Oh, we buy food at the market to be delivered. What did you do, growing up?”

“I ate fruit in the jungle. Also plants and insects.”

“Insects!”

“And sometimes small monkeys.” John set to with the hoe. “I am not picky. In the jungle, if you don’t eat, you die. Tell me about Jack and Alice.”

Cecil settled himself down and considered. For twenty years he had tried not to let thoughts of the Claytons intrude into his peace. There had been too much pain attached to their memory. Now he dredged up those recollections, speaking slowly as each memory came back to him: how he had met Jack when they were about seven and Jack had started a fight with Cecil’s older brother about his treatment of his dog; school escapades and mischief; times they had travelled together as boys, dreaming about one day exploring the world and seeing all of the places they had only read about in books. And he remembered Alice Rutherford and how beautiful she had been, meeting her at her first debutante ball; how tongue-tied Jack had been around her until he found her, quite by chance, absorbed in a public lecture at the British Museum; the way that Alice had fit so easily into their circle.

“They laughed a lot together,” he told John. “They were always laughing and joking with each other. Alice has a wonderful sense of humor; sometimes all she had to do was look across a room at Jack and he would have to struggle to maintain his composure.”

John smiled a little. “What did Alice do?”

“Do?”

“For work,” John said, and cocked his head in confusion at the look on Cecil’s face. “Jane is writing a book about animals. What did Alice do?”

“Well,” Cecil said, wondering how to explain a concept that was so familiar to him that he had scarcely ever given it any thought. “Ladies of our class do not generally work. Not for money, certainly. But I know that Alice wrote. Jack was very proud of that. She wrote articles for ladies’ magazines and the like. Not under her own name, of course.”

John looked puzzled, but before he could pursue the subject, a bird call caught his attention and he turned. Jane Porter was walking down to path towards them, carrying a basket over her arm. She lifted her hand as they turned to her and John’s whole face change, melting into a smile of such tenderness and devotion that Cecil realized at last the feelings between them. He had surmised the day before that they were close, but that was love on John’s face, and it was mirrored in Jane Porter’s.

“Are you finished enough for a rest?” Jane asked. “You weren’t at breakfast.”

“I ate fruit outside,” John said. He put his hand on Jane’s face and bent to kiss her. Jane stood up on her toes to reach them and Cecil looked away, smiling to himself. Certainly this explained John’s referring to her as “my Jane” and the gift of an intimate garment, as well as the flowers at dinner, and the fact that he had stayed with the Porters at all.

“Mr. Cecil is telling me about Jack and Alice,” John said, coming to sit down on the grass beside Jane. “I think they were good people.”

Jane nodded, her face bright and interested. “Tell me,” she said.

They talked for the rest of the morning--at least Jane and Cecil talked. John listened, occasionally asking questions or writing down words and phrases in his little notebook. After a time he returned to his gardening, smoothing the dirt into neat furrows. Cecil was beginning to get a sense of him now. John had learned to be wary during his childhood in the jungle, but he was interested by humanity and wanted to learn. He was far from stupid: the questions he asked and the statements he made may have been in simple sentences, but they revealed an innate intelligence that filled Cecil with pride and relief. Miss Porter, too, was a bright young woman, full of charm and vigour. She was an unusual girl, but her African upbringing served as a likely explanation for that. Most white children were sent away to school in their home countries; Cecil wondered at Porter for keeping his daughter so close by. But she was the reason that John had come out of the jungle at all, and so Cecil was disinclined to pass judgement. It was clear, too, that John and Jane loved each other. He smiled to himself. Lord Greystoke would be thrilled.

 

 

Author's Note: I realize that the last sentence sounds ominous, but it isn't meant to be. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think; comments give me life and energy. Thank you!


	23. Fun and Games

**Chapter Twenty-two: Fun and Games**

 

It was a parlour game that endeared Tennington to them, though none of them expected it to. 

A scientist and a gentleman, the young nobleman had taken it upon himself that morning to let Cecil try to woo Jack Clayton’s son to friendship by leaving them entirely alone. Left to his own devices all day, he had toured the village, eaten far too many sweet things offered him by curious natives, and, at Chief Muviro’s instigation, taught the tribe the rudiments of forensic science by fingerprinting nearly all of them. 

“I fear I’ve started a craze,” he said to Professor Porter, who had watched the proceedings in amusement. 

“You haven’t,” Porter assured him, “The Koba are like people anywhere, interested in new technology. Muviro believes very strongly in education. He had me teaching them English and French within a week of our arrival here.”

“You’ve chosen an extraordinary place,” Tennington said. “It’s beautiful here. Fortuitous for John that he found you.”

“Frankly I’m surprised that he didn’t do it sooner. The people around here have known about a “white spirit” running around in the jungle for years.”

Tennington grinned a little. “I wonder if you would clear something up for me. The Claytons were shipwrecked on the coast far from civilization, you said, but we’re three days upriver. Did he travel here?”

Porter nodded. “From what I can gather of his directions, the area where the Claytons landed is ten days’ walk from the mouth of the Congo. The Mangani apes who raised John, are migratory; they go inland to winter and come out to the coast in the dry months. It was in one of those traveling times that John came upon us.”

“I see.” They had arrived back at the Porters’ little house; Tennington settled himself on the parlour sofa. “He was well cross at us yesterday, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, that was my fault. I didn’t tell him that I’d written to you, you see.  He has an animal’s mistrust of humans and doesn’t like strangers staring at him. If he had had the time to prepare himself, he might not have been so reticent. But I was worried that if he knew, he would run off into the jungle again.”

Tennington chewed on that for a long while. If the parents had survived, he had no doubt that he would have known John Clayton growing up, at least socially. His own parents had known the Claytons; most of London society had. The shockwave that the revelation of their son’s existence would bring was going to be extraordinary. The poor fellow would be trotted out and stared at by everyone; Tennington thought of the probable comments about his manners and attitude and found himself cringing. This extraordinary creature would be poked and prodded and treated as a freak of nature. No man should be forced on London society unprepared and friendless, no matter how well-known and respected his parents had been. Tennington decided in that moment that regardless of everything, he would cultivate the friendship of John Clayton the Third.

*

That evening Tarzan helped Jane cook dinner while Porter entertained their guests in the parlor. It was nice to be alone together in the kitchen, not really talking as they put together a simple meal of chicken stew and rice. Tarzan’s mind whirled with the facts he had learned about Jack and Alice--his parents; he must think of them as his parents. He felt sad for them in a way that he hadn’t before. Before they had not been quite real, just two people who had been lost in the jungle and died. Now they were a part of him; he knew a little about what they had liked, what they had been like. Tarzan thought he might have liked them very much if they had been alive. 

After dinner the whole party settled in the parlor. Tarzan took his small notebook from his belt and settled at the table with Porter’s enormous dictionary, sorting through it for the words he had learned that day from Mr. Cecil. The others read or talked quietly, and the younger Englishman, Tennington, whistled to himself as he rolled the newspapers he and Mr. Cecil had brought from Freetown into two long batons. Tarzan watched him, curious. Tennington caught his eye and grinned.

“Fancy a game?” he asked, brandishing the batons.

Tarzan looked at him in askance. “What kind of game?”

“It’s called ‘Are You There, Moriarty?’” Tennington said. 

“Oh no,” murmured Mr. Cecil, and Tarzan looked sharply at him. To his surprise, Cecil was smiling. “Really, Tennington, ‘Are You There, Moriarty?’”

“Why not? Come on, it’s jolly good fun. You play it like this. Professor, would you be so good?”

Baffled, Tarzan watched as Tennington handed Father a newspaper baton and then bound his eyes with a strip of cloth. He then wound another cloth about his own eyes and took Father’s left hand in his. 

“You hold left hands like so, see, and then one of you shouts ‘Are you there, Moriarty?’ and the other shouts ‘Yes!’ So. Are you there, Moriarty?”

“Yes,” Father said, and Tennington smacked at him with the baton. “Ow! Ow!”

Jane and Cecil roared with laughter at the sight of them, and Tarzan felt a grin spreading across his face. It was play, this, completely harmless and very silly. Father gave as good as he’d got when it was his turn to shout, whacking Tennington until he yelled, laughing, for mercy. They took their blindfolds off and shook hands, both of them snickering. 

“My turn!” Jane cried, reaching for a blindfold. “Come on, John, play with me!”

Tarzan accepted the blindfold from Father and tied it around his eyes. Instantly his other senses were on the highest alert, sounds and scents intensifying. It was like hunting at night, he thought. He didn’t need his eyes to see everything around around him. He held his left hand out; Father guided it to meet Jane’s and he wrapped his fingers around hers, liking the softness of her palm again his own rough skin. He always liked to touch her.

“Now John, you say ‘Are you there, Moriarty?’ and Jane, you say ‘yes’,” Tennington said. 

“Are you there, Moriarty?” he asked and at Jane’s answer, struck out with the paper baton. 

“Ow!” Jane yelped, laughing, then, “Ow! Ow!” as Tarzan thwapped at her again and again. “Wait, that’s not fair! He grew up in the jungle; his senses are better than mine!”

“You must learn to see with your ears!” Tarzan said, laughing, and thwacked her lightly on the head again. 

Jane struck out wildly with the baton, beating Tarzan around the head and shoulders. He leaned back, laughing, so that she missed again and again. “It’s my turn now!” she shouted at last. “Are you there, Moriarty?”

“Jane!” Father exclaimed, laughing aloud. 

“Yes,” Tarzan said.

The paper baton came down on his shoulder with a solid smack. Tarzan yelped, ducking, but was unable to escape Jane’s blows as, cackling, she poked him again and again with her baton. 

“Wait!” he said. “I think you are looking!”

He shoved the blindfold up and glared at her; Jane grinned back, her blindfold resting on her forehead, as the men roared with laughter. Tarzan grinned and tugged on her hand, pulling her into him so that he could tickle her sides. 

“You are cheating! You are naughty!” he exclaimed, fingers unerringly finding each sensitive spot.

Jane screeched in protest as, laughing, he tickled her. “Be gentle with me,  _ be gentle with me _ !”

“All right, you two,” Father said mildly, and Tarzan let her go, hoping that his reluctance to do so did not show. He so liked to hold Jane in his arms. 

“I am sorry--I didn’t mean to be improper.”

Jane squeezed his arm as she stood. “You weren’t; you were being silly. Don’t worry.”

Tarzan darted a glance at the Englishmen, both of whom were smiling. Father, too, did not look perturbed. 

“Play against Lord Tennington, John,” Father said. “Somehow I doubt that he will cheat.”

“No, though Miss Porter probably had the right idea,” Tennington said, accepting the blindfold from Jane. “You really must tell me about your jungle adventures, Mr. Clayton. I confess myself fascinated.”

Tarzan smiled. “I will.”

 

*

Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, Tarzan slipped out of Porter’s room and moved on soundless feet down the little corridor towards Jane’s room. It was raining again, the downpour muffling the sound of his footsteps, but he would never learn to move with noise. Lamplight still shone under her door; he raised his hand and scratched on the wood. Moments later Jane opened the door a crack and looked out at him. Tarzan looked a question at her; they had not had a moment to talk alone since the Englishmen had arrived and he wanted to be with her for a bit without anyone else watching them. Jane seemed to feel the same; she smiled and put a finger to her lips, opening the door and beckoning him inside. Tarzan slipped inside; she closed and bolted the door behind him. He saw that she was wearing the dressing gown he had given her and felt a little thrill of delight. It looked beautiful on her. He said so. Jane blushed and smiled, and stood on her toes to whisper in his ear.

“Come sit down,” she breathed. “We can talk quietly.” 

Tarzan followed her to the bed, climbing up to sit with her, knee to knee, heads bent together, almost touching. Jane’s hair brushed his cheek. They almost never sat this close; it was Improper in a courting couple, but somehow tonight it felt right. This little room was the snuggest, safest nest in the house, even with the shutters ajar to let in the soft cool breeze. Even with the rain, it was the only way to talk without anyone overhearing them. He took her hand in his, winding their fingers together. 

“How are you?” Jane whispered, her cheek very close to his, her breath warm on his ear. 

“Jane,” Tarzan whispered back. “I think I like Mr. Cecil. He is a kind man.”

Jane smiled. “I’m glad. I hoped you would like him.”

“He telled me more about Jack and Alice. He really loved them, and I think he likes me, too.”

“Well, it’s very hard not to like you,” Jane whispered, a smile in her voice. She was so close to him, her lips almost touching his ear, and she smelled of soap and flowers. A pleasant shiver ran down Tarzan’s spine. “You’re a very likable person. Lord Tennington is nice, too, don’t you think? I was concerned that he would be a snob, but he’s been lovely.”

“Yes,” Tarzan breathed, wondering if the nearness of their faces had the same effect on Jane as it did on him. “I liked his game.”

“That was fun, wasn’t it? Even if you did have an unfair advantage.”

“You cheated,” Tarzan said with a grin. “You are cheeky.”

Jane giggled. It was a breathless exhalation, almost giddy; she quickly repressed it. “I thought I evened the odds, don’t you?”

“I would not actually hurt you,” Tarzan whispered. “Even in play. You know that.”

Jane nodded; her hair brushed his cheek again and Tarzan felt something stir inside him. “I do.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide, her breath coming in unsteady bursts. Maybe it was improper to be so close to Tarzan, to have invited him into her room that night. But there was nothing wrong about it, nothing wicked. Tarzan would die before he hurt her. 

Tarzan looked down at her, his grey eyes shining in the dim lamplight. He was so beautiful. She wanted to touch him, to run her hands over his body and feel the strength of his muscles moving under his skin. She wanted to pull him close and kiss him, to press her lips into the curve of his neck, to feel him hard against her--

“Jane,” Tarzan whispered, raising his hand to her cheek. 

Jane lifted her mouth to his, tilting her head back. “Kiss me, John.”

He did as she told him, his lips coming down firm on hers, his hands cupping her face. His mouth was hot and demanding on hers, ardent, and Jane leaned into the kiss, relishing it. She never wanted it to stop. Her hands stole to Tarzan’s neck, holding him; her lips parted, allowing him inside. They broke apart to gasp for air and then clung and tasted again. Tarzan moved his mouth down Jane’s neck, lips brushing over the hollow of her throat, the well between her collar bones, tongue dancing along her soft skin, and she gasped with the pleasure of it. He raised himself to her mouth again and this time it was Jane whose lips and tongue explored his mouth. In the back of her mind, she thought that she could kiss him forever. 

It was Tarzan who pulled away first. His eyes were very big. “Jane,” he whispered, and it was enough to make her brush his lips. “Is this Proper?”

“Hang propriety!” Jane whispered. “We belong to each other.”

Tarzan smiled and nuzzled her face. “I know. Only once I begin to kiss you, I think we will not stop.”

Jane sighed. He was right, she knew; all she wanted in that moment was to pull him down on top of her--not for sex, but for the sheer pleasure of being loved and caressed by him. And she knew, looking at him, that he wanted that, too. 

“Will you sleep in here at least? You have to be gone before morning, but I miss you.”

Tarzan nodded. “On the floor?”

“No. Hold me?”

He smiled then, a smile so bright and happy that Jane found herself grinning foolishly back. She put out the lamp and they curled into her blankets, tucked together with their arms about each other. Jane brushed his hair away from his face and tucked her head under his chin. It was so good to lie like this, their bodies warm and comfortable together, the rain pouring down on the roof above creating an aura of aloneness.

“I love you, John Clayton,” she whispered. 

Tarzan’s arm tightened about her. He kissed the top of her head. He knew what Wasimbu had meant when he said it seemed foolish to be apart from Eshe even for a few hours. To be alive all day and then to sleep in the arms of your beloved: what was more beautiful than that? Before dawn he would have to leave her and return to his own bed, but that did not matter. Jane was warm and soft in his arms, and she loved him, and he loved her. Tarzan tucked his mate closer to him and, lulled by the falling rain, slept. 

 

 

Author's Note: Sorry for the long pause between updates; I've been first ill and then very busy, and truth be told, rather lacking in motivation. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know if you did. I've been finding it very hard to write lately and come feedback will help a lot with recharging me. Thanks!


	24. Preparations

**Chapter Twenty-three: Preparations**

 

“I wonder,” Mr. Cecil said one evening, four days after his arrival, “if we could possibly find Jack and Alice’s house along the coast.”

Jane looked up from her plate, surprised. It was dinner time and the little group sat about the table in the parlor, still on formal behavior, but more relaxed with each other now, more open. Mr. Cecil and Lord Tennington were model guests and Tarzan had lost his initial wariness around them. She looked over at him now, wondering what he made of the question, if he understood the meaning behind Cecil’s words. He took a bite of sweet potato and chewed, considering. 

“It is a nine-sleep journey from here to there,” Tarzan said. “But the Mangani aren’t yet out of the mountains. It is safe to walk.” He flashed her a small smile. “And Jane can see animals for her book.”

“I would like that,” Jane said, but her father was already frowning. 

“Walking might not be the best course of action, Cecil, if you’re hoping to bring things back,” he warned. 

So they did mean what Jane thought they meant. Tarzan looked from one to the other, not understanding the heavy meaning in Porter’s voice. His eyes shifted to Jane, the question in them clear: what could they want to bring back from the treehouse? He had already removed all of his parents’ surviving belongings when he last visited. Jane grimaced back.  _ Wait _ . 

“What if we went by boat?” Tennington said. “We could steam down to Boma and  take my little yacht. I’m sure the crew would be up for it.”

There was a silence as this plan was considered. Tarzan still looked mystified, but he continued to eat in silence, awkwardly wielding his fork and knife. He looked like he wished he could drop the tools and eat with his hands, as the Koba did. Jane nudged his foot under the table, caught his eye, and smiled. Tarzan’s eyes crinkled back at her. 

“Could you find the right place if we went by sea?” Porter asked, dragging Tarzan’s attention back to himself. “What do you think, Tarzan?”

Tarzan considered it. He knew what the coastline around the treehouse looked like, having played on the beach and in the waves many times before. But would he be able to guide them there if they did not go through the jungle? How could they go by sea? And what was a yacht?

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe. You can see the treehouse from the beach.”

Tennington nodded. “In that case we should be able to find it if we set a watch.”

“But why?” Tarzan looked around at them. What could a pocket watch do? “It is just a broken house. Jack and Alice are not there anymore.”

There was an awkward silence as the men shifted and glanced around at each other. Jane shook her head at them, annoyed by their reticence, and met Tarzan’s eyes. 

“They want to find your parents’ bones,” she said baldly. 

“Oh.” Tarzan stared at her. “Why?”

Cecil and Tennington both looked surprised again and Tarzan ducked his head, embarrassed. They had been good over the past few days about not showing their horror at his ignorance, but Tarzan had all but stopped asking questions in front of them. Jane ignored the sudden tension and looked her darling in the eye. 

“You know how the Koba sing of their ancestors and bury their dead so that they can be with the gods?” Jane said. “We do that, too, but a little differently. Western families like to have the bones of their loved ones buried in a churchyard--that’s the garden around the church, like in Bonne Terre Township. Mr Cecil and Lord Tennington can take Jack and Alice’s bones back to England and give them to your grandparents, so that they can have a place to bury them. It will make them feel better. Your grandparents, I mean, not the bones.”

Tarzan smiled a little. “I understand. I think I understand. They will feel more peaceful if they know where the bones are.”

Jane nodded. “Yes. They can put down flowers and say prayers and that will help them to feel less sad.”

Cecil was nodding, too. “It will bring them closure. That means they won’t have to worry anymore about not knowing what happened to your parents.”

“I see,” Tarzan said, in such an uncanny imitation of Father that Jane grinned. “Then yes. We must go to the treehouse. We must be kind.”

Jane smiled at him, pride filling her. The biggest struggle she had had with Tarzan over the past week was getting him to understand that his English family would care for him, that they mattered. Cecil had helped immensely with that. His kindness and obvious liking for Tarzan had soothed the other’s fears, and that Tarzan felt safe around him pleased and relieved Jane. Cecil also seemed to like her, and that too was an immense relief. Jane had wondered what a gentleman intimately connected to the Greystoke family would think of her relationship with Tarzan, especially as Tarzan had become so demonstrative in his affection since Cecil’s arrival, always stopping whatever he was doing to kiss her when they met. They had always been familiar with each other, patting hands and shoulders, brushing each other’s hair as they passed, but the kisses were new and Jane enjoyed them very much. It amused and aroused Jane in equal measure that this was Tarzan’s way of marking her as his before the visitors. The very primalness of it in the face of stuffy English civility was great good fun. 

But so far no one had said anything, not even her father, and Jane was grateful for it. 

After dinner, as Father, Cecil and Tennington continued to make plans for their trip, Jane brought out her sewing box and tugged Tarzan away from his dictionary. 

“If we’re going to Boma, you’re going to need clothes,” she said. 

“I have clothes!” Tarzan protested. 

“I mean white people clothes,” Jane replied. “Trousers and shirts like Father’s. Hold still, I’m going to measure you.”

Tarzan stood quite stiffly as Jane held the measuring tape along his shoulders and arms, scribbling down the length of each appendage. He had broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and long limbs; Jane found herself hoping that she would have enough fabric to make him clothes that fit correctly. Aunt Enid had sent a lot of fine cotton in her Christmas box that she could use. She paused as she came to measure his inseam.

“Um,” she said, not sure how to proceed, and Father came to her rescue. 

“Hold the tape like this,” he said to Tarzan, demonstrating, and the wild man held the end of the tape at groin level. Jane took down the measurements and nodded to herself. 

“I’ll ask for help in the village tomorrow. We can probably manage to make you a good suit in a couple of days,” she said. 

Tarzan scoffed. “I will look stupid in a suit. I do not look like proper Englishmen. Can’t I just wear my skirts?”

“No, Jane’s right. Boma’s a good-sized town; the people there won’t like it if you wear native apparel,” Father said. 

“Why not?”

“It’s not seen as civilized,” Jane said, frowning as she sketched out trousers in her notebook. She’d made trousers before, but never for anyone as long and lanky as Tarzan. 

“But I am  _ not _ civilized,” Tarzan said. “I never weared trousers before! I don’t know how.”

Cecil grinned. “It’s easy enough, you’ll find. Put them on one leg at a time, button up and off you go.”

“They’re perfectly comfortable,” Father agreed. “And I’m afraid we’ll have to insist. White society won’t tolerate you wearing native dress.”

Jane tossed down her sketchbook. “I’ll manage it. Come choose out fabric with me.”

Grumbling, Tarzan followed her out of the parlor. 

The box that Aunt Enid had sent had been emptied into the little house’s store cupboards: novels and popular magazines into the parlor, jams and preserves into the kitchen, spools of thread and balls of yarn into Jane’s sewing box, and fabric into the linen cupboard. Jane opened the doors and pulled out several bundles: soft white American cotton for shirts or dresses, a thicker blue weave for trousers and skirts, and a couple of pretty patterns in soft cool colors specifically meant for Jane. Enid had even sent a handful of patterns in the latest styles, including one of a safari suit. Tarzan brushed his fingers over it. 

“I will look stupid in English clothes,” he murmured. He did not look like Cecil, like Tennington, so elegant in their pale linen suits and straw hats.

Jane shook her head. “You will feel stupid at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

She did not say that he had gotten used to everything else that they had foisted on him over the past year, but the amused look Tarzan shot her told Jane that he was thinking the same thing. 

“Anyway,” she continued, “I won’t dress you like them. We’ll make you something more comfortable. I’ll talk with Mwana and the rest of the women about it tomorrow.”

The next day, a council of war was held up in the village hall. Jane displayed her fabric, her sketches, her patterns, and her lover to the gathered women, explaining the amount of work to do and the time frame involved. This was waved off as not a problem; with so many of them it would take only a short time to dress Tarzan. The questions were more sartorial in nature. 

“He will look foolish dressed like those Englishmen,” Mwana said without preamble.

Tarzan shot Jane a triumphant look. She ignored him.  

“He has to wear  _ something _ like them. This sort of fabric isn’t as fancy as theirs, either,” Jane said. “I was thinking of something very simple.”

“Tarzan would look well in the blue,” Eshe said, rubbing her fingers over the soft cloth. “With a white shirt, like Porter.”

“White people wear those funny things around their necks,” Ulaiya added. “A necktie. Will we give him a necktie?”

Tarzan shook his head. “I don’t need it,” he said. He was ignored. 

“I was thinking that we could use some of the extra red fabric he wove for a waistcoat,” Jane said. 

This was met with a murmur of approval. In short order, each piece of the suit had been claimed by a different woman, the fabric and thread was passed around, and they fell to their task, laughing and singing and talking much as they had on the day that Tarzan had first seen them, last summer in the wild orchard. He stood awkwardly among them, shunted from woman to woman, each of whom measured a different part of his body and made him bend and flex and move for her. Jane watched from her place beside Mwana, grinning a little. 

“He’s taking this well,” Mwana said.

“I think he’s becoming interested,” Jane replied. “He asked me loads of questions about Boma last night, and Lord Tennington told him all about sailing and the sea.”

Mwana gave her an appraising look. “This will be a new experience for both of you. Tarzan is unused to the ways of whites. You must not be surprised or angry if being around so many people frightens him.”

“I know. I’m a bit worried about that,” Jane admitted. Living in the village had become easy for Tarzan; he was well-liked by everyone and moved about them with ease. But life outside their little world could be cruel. 

“Well, whatever happens, he will look the part,” Mwana said. “Don’t fret, Janey, we will turn our man out with great pride.”

It took a week to complete the suit, and just as much time to prepare for the trip down the river and then the coast. Tarzan had never realized before how much thought could go into planning such an expedition. Always he had simply made up his mind to go and then gone. Food was plentiful in the jungle, and he knew how to find shelter. But humans were much more thorough; they required tents and tools and maps, a schedule. This was the day they would leave. This was the day they would arrive in Boma. Tennington would need this amount of time to prepare his crew and his boat. They would stay at this hotel in the meantime. Then it would take this amount of time to sail down the coast to where they thought the treehouse was. Then they would stay as long as they needed to find the Claytons’ bones. Would it be one week? Two weeks? Three? They would need supplies for all of that time. 

“There is plenty to eat there,” Tarzan protested. “It is the warm months. There are many fruit trees by the treehouse, and there will be grubs and insects plenty.”

Cecil grimaced. “We don’t want to eat grubs and insects. We can bring our own food and eat like civilized people.”

Tarzan shrugged. “I suppose. If you want to.”

Cecil smiled. “Just because we  _ can _ eat grubs doesn’t mean we  _ have _ to. We’ll have the boat to carry our supplies; we can bring whatever we want along.”

“Like flour and pans for banana fritters,” Jane said and Tarzan grinned at her. 

On the afternoon before the Porters and their guests were scheduled to leave, Tarzan was presented with his new clothes. This was done with great amusement and delight before most of the village, who had assembled to see their wild man decked out as a gentleman. 

“We have made two outfits,” Ulaiya said. “One to wear around the white people and one to wear when you are not.”

Tarzan was presented with his blue suit and sent to change in a corner behind a curtain. He removed his skirts with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. Early in his stay with the Porters, while he was still healing from Kerchak’s attack, Tarzan had tried to put on human clothing, only Jane’s were not meant for men and beside,neither her nor Father’s clothes fit him. It rather pleased Tarzan to have a set of Western clothes for himself, even if he did feel a little ridiculous as he put on the shorts and undershirt, then the soft blue trousers and white shirt. Ulaiya had made him a waistcoat from the leftover fabric of Jane’s dressing gown, with finely carved bone buttons. The clothes felt strange against his skin, constricting but not uncomfortable. Tarzan pulled his long hair out from under the collar and walked back into the hall. 

He was met with laughter and applause, the Koba women looking delighted with their work. The Englishmen standing beside Porter smiled broadly. Tarzan grinned a little, feeling foolish. At Jane’s behest, he turned in a circle for everyone to see. 

“How do you feel?” Jane asked. 

Tarzan moved his arms; the shirt fit perfectly and didn’t limit his movement. “It is good. It feels very fine.”

“You look very handsome,” Jane agreed. She brushed the collar of his jacket and pulled her hands back, grinning foolishly.

“The hair is all wrong,” Eshe said. “White men have short hair.”

Tarzan put his hands on his head. “I don’t want short hair.”

“It would look better with the outfit,” Porter said. “But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“Certainly not,” agreed Muviro, who had heretofore remained silent. He was smiling, but his eyes did not look pleased. “Show him your other outfit, ladies, so that Tarzan can look more like himself.”

The other outfit consisted of a pair of loose white trousers closed at the waist with a drawstring and a blue and white dashiki shirt. This outfit was considerably more comfortable than the suit and Tarzan’s smile was much more genuine as he modeled it. He could wear these clothes without worrying that they would be ruined if he turned himself too sharply. 

Later, Chief Muviro took Tarzan’s arm and led him a short way from the company. 

“You do look very fine, my Tarzan,” he said. “You will do us proud in the white man’s city.”

“I hope so,” Tarzan said. “I will tell you everything I learn.”

“They are very different from us,” Muviro said after a pause. “They do not think like the Koba do. The black man, they say, is inferior to the white man.”

Tarzan was shocked. “Why?”

Muviro shrugged. “Our ways are not their ways. They cannot live with that. You will find yourself between caught two worlds, Tarzan. Be careful not to lose yourself.”

The next day, early in the morning, the village gathered at the riverbank to watch the little steamer embark on its three day trip downriver. Tarzan felt a little thrill as his friends, his family, waved them off. They would be back in time for the wedding, but for now he turned his thoughts to the immediate future. He was excited to see more of the human world, and as the river swept them along, turned his face towards Boma.

 

Author's Note: I haven't given up on this story, though I've rather given up on receiving comments for it. It's been a rather fraught April on my end, but now that May is here things are calming down. I hope you enjoy the chapter!

 


	25. On the River

**Chapter Twenty-four: On the River**

 

The three day journey to Boma was the pleasantest that Jane had ever made. She had not been back to the port town since finishing school the year before: at first disinclination had prevented her return, and then the arrival of Tarzan into her life had kept Jane firmly in the village. But now she felt some excitement.

“It’ll be nice to be in a town again,” she said to Tarzan. They sat at mid-deck on the river boat, dangling their feet over the side, taking a break after a morning of lessons. “It’ll be nice to do some shopping and see friends.”

Tarzan leaned against the rail. “What means shopping?”

He knew what it meant from the stories they read together, but Jane didn’t mind explaining it again. “Buying new things. Books and bootlaces and such. I’ll show you when we get there. You can come with me.”

“I would like that,” Tarzan agreed, smiling.

“There will be a lot of people,” Jane warned. “Lots more than at home. Will you be nervous?”

Tarzan cocked his head, thinking about it. “Maybe. We must wait and see.”

Jane smiled and slid her arm along the rail to touch his, relishing the warmth of his bare skin against hers. It was their first full day on the river and they had taken a break from the studies Porter had assigned Tarzan to have tea and watch the jungle slip by. Jane’s sketchbook rested at her side; she had been drawing the hippos feeding in the water when Tarzan joined her with the teacups. He had been grinning, holding Tennington’s fine silver tray with the two porcelain teacups and saucers like a footman in a Jane Austen novel--though an incongruous one in his green skirts. Travelling with the Englishmen had so far been nothing but amusing to Tarzan. As he had said to Jane the first evening after dinner, he had never seen anyone so fancy in his life, with their feather mattresses and finely woven blankets and delicate porcelain dinnerware.

“And you know what?” Jane had whispered back. “They probably think this is roughing it.”

Still, if this was roughing it English-style, Jane didn’t mind it. Her father was a consummate explorer; he rarely needed more than a backpack and a bedroll to be ready for a long hike, and Tarzan didn’t need anything at all. It was nice to eat hot meals morning and evening, nice to sleep on a soft mattress on the back deck. On their first day, Jane had been offered the little cabin situated middeck, but it was just above the boat’s engine and far too hot to actually sleep in.

“We three will sleep at the back of the boat,” Porter said, quite mildly, to the gentlemen and Jane had been both surprised and gratified. It was easier to sleep together as a family, and the fact that Porter had not suggested that Tarzan sleep apart from them pleased her. Naturally their beds were on opposite sides of Porter’s, but with her father’s implicit permission there could be no impropriety. Indeed, neither Cecil nor Tennington had seemed even remotely surprised. But Jane had long since realized that both were intent on true friendship.

“Will I wear hooves in Boma?” Tarzan asked now, pulling her thoughts back to the present.

Jane raised her sandalled foot and tapped it lightly against Tarzan’s bare one. “We could order you some boots, if you like. That’s something to do with Father. I was thinking that it would be better to start you off in sandals. They’ll be nicer to wear at first, since you’ve never worn shoes before.”

Tarzan stuck his feet out into the air before them. They were long and shapely, the toes splayed out, each as strong and dextrous as his fingers. The skin on the soles was tough as hide. Jane had heard innuendos from the village women about the size of men’s feet and felt her face warming.

“If hooves--shoes--are so important, why do the Koba not wear them?” Tarzan asked.

“It’s not their tradition,” Jane replied. “Shoes can be nice when the weather is bad or the streets are filthy.”

Tarzan nodded. “Your feet are not cold and wet in the rains.”

“Exactly,” Jane said and smiled.

They lapsed into silence, looking out over the brown river water. Hippos grazed along the riverbank, half submerged in water, and jungle birds filled the air with their raucous chorus. Tarzan listened for a long moment, then made a high, squeaky call.  Several birds answered.Jane looked at him, amused.

“Black-tailed godwit,” she said.

Tarzan grinned. “And what do they say?”

“I don’t know.”

“They say, bugs are here. Come eat,” Tarzan said. He gave another call; again, birds answered.

“More bugs to eat?” Jane guessed.

Tarzan shook his head. “Humans. Stay away.”

“Do you know all of their calls?”

Tarzan nodded. “I learned when I was little. I listen to the birds and speak their language. It is very beautiful.”

“Can you teach me?”

Tarzan gave her a small smile. “Pick a bird.”

“The one you just did,” Jane replied. “The common snipe.”

Tarzan nodded and pursed his lips, whistling low and rhythmic. “This is for food, come eat! And this is predators, fly away.” A different call, in the same pitch but with different intonation. Jane tried to mimic it and failed, chuckling. Tarzan’s eyes danced. “Try again.”

He took her through the various calls, quizzing her on what each meant until Jane could identify them. It was impressive; each call had its own pitch and rhythm, the sounds susurrating out from between Tarzan’s lips, a language that only he and the birds understood. _Come and eat! Fly away! This is a safe place to nest!_ It was hard to forget that Tarzan was wild, but only too easy to assume that because he knew so little about humanity, he could not possibly know much about anything else. Listening to him teach her about his world filled Jane with longing. How lovely it would be to be alone with Tarzan in the jungle. There was so much to learn from him, and Jane knew that she would always be safe in his company.

Tarzan gave a soft throbbing whistle, a new sound. Jane cocked her head, listening, then requested that he repeat it. She shook her head.

“I don’t know that one.”

“Mating call,” Tarzan replied, looking into her eyes. “I telled you I know all the calls.”

His words were light, but the look in his eyes filled Jane with warmth.  She did not look away.

“Do you know...that call...for all creatures?”

Tarzan nodded. “Here is chimpanzee.” A raucous hoot. “Here is hippo.” A roar. “And cheetah.” A hissing growl. “Humans are not so simple.”

“No,” Jane murmured. She wanted to lean forward and kiss him, to show him that she understood him. “We--”

“What are you two up to?” Porter, hearing the sounds, appeared around the side of the forward cabin, where he had been talking with the Englishmen.

“Tarzan is teaching me animal calls,” Jane said. “They have a whole language of their own, you know.”

“I see,” Porter said, looking from one face to the other. “Mr. Cecil is taking a nap; it would be best if you stopped for the time being.”

“Yes, Father.”

Porter disappeared again and Tarzan and Jane grinned at each other.

“Give me a kiss,” Jane said, and Tarzan obeyed, delighted. His mouth was soft and warm, and Jane leaned into him.

“I was meaning,” he said, pulling away from her, “that humans do not have a call, but they have behaviors. They touch, and they make eyes, and they move their bodies in different ways.”

“I know,” Jane said. “We don’t always need words to communicate.”

“No,” Tarzan agreed. “It’s how I am knowing I am safe with you, when I was first in our house. It’s how I am knowing that you want me, now that I am a man.”

Jane grinned again. “Don’t let Father hear you say that. He’ll make you sleep at the front of the boat with Mr. Cecil and Lord Tennington.”

Tarzan grinned back. “Father reads people. He knows lots of things.”

Jane chuckled and scooted closer to Tarzan, leaning against him. He put his arm about her waist and rested his cheek against her head.

“I do want you,” Jane murmured, low enough for only him to hear. “I love you.”

“I love _you_ ,” Tarzan said. “You are my one and only. Always.”

They stayed like that, watching the jungle slip by, for a long time.

 

Author's Note: Sorry for the long pause between updates; the end of the semester rather consumed me. Luckily that's all over now, and save for finishing up my grading, summer break is now here! Originally this was meant to be a much longer chapter, but I figured I'd post now so that you guys know I'm not giving up on this story. Hopefully this means I'll be in a better head space to write. Thank you to everyone for reading, and if you like what you read, please leave me a comment and make my day! The comments I've received so far, and especially this past month, have really helped me to stay motivated. 


	26. The Port of Boma

**Chapter Twenty-five: The Port of Boma**

 

Boma was loud and smelly and ugly, and from his first sight of it Tarzan wished he could flee back into the jungle, where he knew what the dangers were and how to keep safe from them.  

“This is new for you, isn’t it?” Tennington asked.

“Yes,” murmured Tarzan.

They stood on the deck of the riverboat, watching the town draw nearer. The river here had opened out so wide that it almost resembled a lake, its edges lost in a hazy mist. The town itself sat nestled at the base of lush green hills, its buildings like nothing Tarzan had ever seen. Some had red roofs and staircases leading up to doors that stood well above the street, while others squatted along the river’s edge like surly beasts. The captain of their little vessel piloted them carefully between long wooden ramps that Tennington called docks.

“Port towns are rarely lovely,” Tennington said. “The warehouses that line the docks--those buildings there, see?--they’re almost always ugly to look at. The farther from the docks one goes, the nicer the town becomes. Boma isn’t too bad once you get a few streets from the water.”

Tarzan did not see how it could possibly get better, but he recognized the kindly meaning behind Tennington’s words and nodded. It was only for a few days, he reminded himself, and then they could go home. A few days and they would be back on a boat, heading down the coast towards his own jungle. Tarzan sighed. He would only have to pretend for a few days.

“Ready?”

The voice at his side was Father’s. Tarzan gave him a skeptical look.

“I will embarrass you,” he mumbled.

“I doubt that,” Father replied. “So far you have only made me proud. I have every confidence in you.”

He squeezed Tarzan’s shoulder and won a small smile in response. “I know all this has been hard for you,” Father continued in an undertone, “but you’ve been so brave, John. I know you can handle this.”

Tarzan took Father’s hand and squeezed it in wordless thanks.

When they disembarked the little steamer, Tarzan walked between Jane and Father, his arm through his sweetheart’s. The docks were a chaos of men of all colors shouting and throwing boxes around. No one paid attention to the party except for a man in a pristine white suit who seemed to know Father and the Englishmen and who waved porters towards the steamer to remove the luggage. He was, Tarzan learned later, the harbor master and it was his job to make sure that everything at the docks “ran smoothly”.

“I’ll just pop along to my ship and see the men,” Tennington said and strode away, leaving the rest of the group to walk to the hotel together.

The hotel was called the Palace, though it looked nothing like the palaces in the fairytale books that he and Jane had read together. It was a big, sprawling, three level house with lots of windows and a big veranda at the front and a terrace and garden at the back. The white man standing at the desk knew Father and remembered Mr. Cecil and directed them to a suite of rooms on the first floor. Tarzan wondered what could be sweet about a bedroom.

“We would like to look over the garden, please, if you don’t mind,” Jane said, and Tarzan shot her a grateful glance.

“Of course, ma’am,” the man said, handing over a key.

Porter signed the register for them: Archimedes Q. Porter, Jane Porter, John Porter. This had been agreed upon on the way downriver, for Tarzan was still traveling incognito, which meant that other people did not need to know that he was a Clayton, and it was the only way he could share rooms with them without being Improper. “If anyone asks, you’re my nephew,” Father had said. But no one asked.

The suite the Porters had been given was not sweet, but rather two bedrooms that opened off of a small parlor. One room contained a two narrow beds, the other a larger single bed, all covered with soft floral-print blankets and spread with fluffy white pillows.

“This is Jane’s room,” Father said. “You and I will share.”

“Of course,” Tarzan said, thinking longingly of his mattress on Jane’s floor at home, and even more longingly of the nights they had spent tucked up in each other’s arms.

It was a nice set of rooms, though, and what was even more interesting about it was the indoor plumbing. At home they had an outhouse, but here there was a toilet and when one pulled the cord, it flushed. Tarzan found this hilarious. He stood in the bathroom for a good long time, pulling the cord and watching the water sink out and then replenish itself.

“It’s magic!” he said, delighted, to Father when the older man stuck his head into the bathroom to see what was going on.

“It’s technology,” Father replied, and explained what little he knew about plumbing. Tarzan grinned.

“Magic,” he said, and pulled the flush cord again.

It had been early evening when they arrived at the docks, and so there was no shopping that day. They ate an early supper in their rooms and went to bed early, the better to get up early and explore.

“We’ll have breakfast in the dining room tomorrow,” Father said. “Wear your blue suit, all right?”

“Yes,” Tarzan said. “But I have no hooves. Boots.”

“Ah.” This brought Father up short. He thought for a long moment, then made Tarzan stand on a piece of paper and traced his feet with a pencil. Sticking his head out of the suite door, he called to the servant on duty and handed over the paper and some money. An hour later, just before they put out the lights, came a knock at the door: a black servant carrying a cardboard box. Inside nestled a pair of ready-made leather shoes. Tarzan, rueful, slid his feet into them and watched carefully how Father did up the laces. The shoes were not new, but they were clean and polished, and they fit. Tarzan flexed his feet, encased in hard leather. The shoes were heavy and awkward. He sighed.

“You look very fine,” Jane assured him. “No one can say a word against you.”

Tarzan gave her a grateful smile.

Breakfast was less an ordeal than he had feared. Tarzan wore his blue suit and tied his hair back with a piece of string so that he looked almost respectable. Almost. From the way the staff looked at him, Tarzan suspected that if he had not been accompanied by Father and Mr. Cecil and Lord Tennington, he might not have been served. He was very aware of the eyes that rested upon him as soon as he entered the fine dining room, and drew himself up, letting his face go hard and stern. Warning the watchers not to approach him. A waiter showed them to a table; dressed in Western clothing as he was, Tarzan could not tell which tribe he was from. Was it Proper to ask? The rules here were so different, so much more formal than at home. He chose not to speak. But the food was good: a bread called brioche that was light as air, spread with butter and jam, and soft boiled eggs with salt and pepper, and roast ham, and coffee. Tarzan ate quietly, careful not to fumble his cutlery, and listened with one ear while the others discussed their plans for the day.

“I’m going to show John the sights,” Jane said. “We’ve some shopping to do and I want to leave my film at the photography shop.”

“My crew will need at least two days to take on the necessary supplies,” Tennington said. “They started work this morning and I’ve no doubt they’ll have no trouble, but I’ll go along to the ship to see how things are going.”

“I’ve some letters to post,” Mr. Cecil said. “And I promised Margaret I’d send her a telegram, to let her know my plans.”

After breakfast, Jane took Tarzan’s arm and all but dragged him out of the building.

“Ugh, those people have no manners at all!” she snarled. “Could you feel their eyes on us?”

“Yes,” Tarzan said.

“Their mothers never taught them not to stare,” Jane grumbled, striding along the raised boardwalk, the skirts of her best blue and white dress caught up in one hand. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I am fine,” Tarzan said. “They did not want to approach us, only look.”

“Well, they can look somewhere else. It felt like being an animal in a zoo.”

“A what?”

“Like being on display,” Jane said. “Stared at to see what would happen next.”

Tarzan caught her arm to slow her down; she was practically running, and while it was not hard for him to keep pace with her, he did not think sprinting into Boma was a wise idea.

“I stare at you to see what happens next.”

“You’re different,” Jane snapped. “You do it to learn. They do it because we’re different from them.”

But she slowed and gave him a sheepish smile.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it would annoy me so.”

“You are defensive of me,” Tarzan said, amused and touched. “Thank you.”

“I am,” Jane agreed. She raised her parasol--a necessary accessory in society--and flapped it open. “If anyone is rude to you I’ll give them a good old fashioned beating with my parasol. Don’t laugh! It’s got a steel shaft!”

Tarzan took her arm and wound it through his. “They will fight my tiny fierce mate and be sorry.”

Jane laughed. “Yes, indeed. You will hold my hat for me, won’t you?”

Tarzan laughed again. “May I please kiss you?”

“On the face,” Jane said, pausing to tilt her cheek up to him. “Mouths are private. There. Let’s go.”

Shopping was a new and pleasant experience. Tarzan had never seen so many things in his life. There was a store for cookery ware, and one for fabric, and one for hats and neckties. There was a photography studio, where Jane left film from her camera to be developed (“Remember how I took pictures of you last summer? We’ll be able to see them now”), and a tiny bookshop that sold books both used and new, as well as newspapers from around the world and writing materials. The bookseller, a weedy French gentleman, remembered Jane from her school days and came out from behind his desk to greet them. He did not seem perturbed by Tarzan, though the latter felt awkward and ungainly in the narrow shop. There were stacks of books everywhere, on tables, on shelves, on the floor even, and Tarzan held himself very still so as not to topple them.

“What does the gentleman like to read?” the bookseller asked.

“Everything,” Tarzan said after a moment’s hesitation. “Stories about people.”

A smile blossomed across the man’s face, one so kind and delighted that Tarzan felt himself relaxing. “Ah, then monsieur should look here.”

“Here” was a shelf full of adventure books of the kind in the popular magazines that Aunt Enid sent from America. They spent a delightful half-hour browsing and came away with two books by H. Rider Haggard. Tarzan felt strangely proud of these books. They were his. His own books, bought by himself with money that Father had given him. This brought Tarzan’s personal possessions up to two skirts, two suits, a pair of uncomfortable leather shoes, a bead necklace, several small carven animals, and two books. He felt like a prince with all these riches.

Boma was not large, and once they finished walking it Tarzan and Jane returned to the hotel, where they settled at a table in the garden and got out notebooks and pencils and Tarzan’s new books. Holding the pen carefully but still clumsy, Tarzan wrote his name on the fly-leaf, as Jane did with her books. _John C. Tarzan_.

He had carefully pondered the name. He still did not feel like John Clayton and was reluctant to relinquish Tarzan. John C. Tarzan made sense. For now.

 

 

 

Author's Note: apparently my muses have come back with a vengeance! A few notes about historical accuracy in this chapter: Boma is a real city sixty miles or so upstream from the Atlantic coast. I've tried to describe it as accurately as possible, given that it *was* the seat of the Belgian Congo for a time, but haven't been able to find any really reliable historical sources on it. So I have largely made everything about it up. Also, Rider Haggard's adventure stories weren't published until 1885, three years after this story takes place, but I like him and so in he goes. And, last but not least, film cameras were not a Thing at this time and Jane wouldn't have been able to just blithely drop film off for development, but again I am bending the historical realities in favor of a really emotional scene that will be coming in the next chapter. I hope you all enjoy this chapter! Please leave me a comment and let me know!


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